


Letters from Khan

by brainofck



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Afghanistan, Empathy, F/M, Genetic Engineering, Genocide, M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:43:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brainofck/pseuds/brainofck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sherlock Holmes became Khan, ruled most of Asia and the Middle East, traveled in space, went to the future, destroyed a big chunk of San Francisco, colonized a doomed world, and created a planet.  (I hope.  We'll see if I make it though and past the actual <i>Into Darkness</i> story line.)<br/><b>Content/warnings:</b> Spoilers for <i>Star Trek: Into Darkness</i>, all Khan stories.  Follows Khan's story arc in canon, so no happy ending, no redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Murder of the Great Detective

**Author's Note:**

> What is this, Brain? A writable story? What's the heck? TREK? Really? You know how we feel about Trek. *sigh* But there was Sherlock Holmes, running around the future, being all broken and manipulative and brilliant and evil, and then I was prodding Khan's back story on Wikipedia, and then I was writing thousands of words like my muse didn't die in April 2012, leaving me to hop through fandom after fandom looking for a new home.
> 
> Not to mention that as an American, who has been infinitely amused over time by British writers who make Stargate characters sound like they're from London, I am extremely reluctant to mix in with Sherlock. But my darling Uisgich persuaded me that if _she_ could write Sam and Dean, then surely _I_ could write Sherlock and John. Many thanks to her for her advice, as well as for her read-through. (Also, incredibly helpful as a jumping off point: [Brit-Picking Hints for Sherlock Authors](http://archiveofourown.org/works/259535).)
> 
> This is WIP, though the next chapter is already beta'd, and chapters 3 and 4 are written, being edited, and headed for beta in the next few days. That's a solid 18,000 words already in electrons, with another couple thousand written on chapter 5. My goal is to have the entire thing done no later than Halloween, 2013. If I venture into the _Into Darkness_ script and beyond, that will probably be done as a second work in a series. This part, leading up to the augmented humans leaving Earth, will be stand alone and finished in a timely manner.
> 
> Also, so much love to Zats_Clear for her always thoughtful comments and suggestions, despite having zero time for beta'ing. *hugs*
> 
> OK. Here goes. *cracks knuckles*

* * *

_My Dear Brother,_

_I told you you'd regret it._

_Yours,  
SH_

* * *

John sighed as the sleek black sedan with tinted windows pulled smoothly to the curb. The back passenger door was pushed open from the inside.

“He could just call me,” John complained, ducking down to peer at Anthea, only to find that Anthea hadn't come to pick him up this time.

“Good morning, Dr Watson,” Mycroft greeted him with his usual thin smile. John had no idea if Mycroft knew how to smile properly at people he was genuinely happy to meet, or if smiling was as hard for him as it could be for his brother.

“I have the shopping,” John protested half-heartedly. Mycroft nodded slightly and John turned to find a bulky body guard standing just behind him. The man relieved him of the plastic bags and deposited them in the boot of the car. John drew in on himself in annoyance, letting his shoulders slump and his eyes close as he considered what his life had become since he had risen to the great heights of power that the Holmes family represented. Then he straightened, lifted his chin, and gave in to the inevitable. The body guard climbed in behind him, sandwiching him in the middle. The car pulled out into traffic.

“I heard you had a favourable result on your last case,” Mycroft ventured, as if they were meeting at the club rather than squashed uncomfortably in the back seat of a car.

John shrugged.

“It was a fairly boring murder. Sherlock was muttering the entire time about how Scotland Yard should do their own bloody job and stop bleating to him all the time.” John turned a bit awkwardly to look at Mycroft. 

“What do you want, Mycroft? Everything's good in Baker Street. Finances are fine. Sherlock's on an even keel…”

“Not shooting holes in the walls, yes, I'm aware,” Mycroft replied agreeably. He lapsed into a thoughtful silence. John was starting to feel quite put upon.

“So. We've never had an armed escort on any of our abductions before,” John prompted.

“No,” Mycroft agreed. He took a deep breath. “No, as you have obviously rightly deduced, this is not one of our usual visits.” He paused, no awkward smile. His fingers tightened on his umbrella. “This is, in fact, an actual abduction. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes disappeared today. In about three weeks, your bloated, disfigured bodies will be found in the Thames, Harriet and I will be asked to identify you, and Lestrade will find and convict your killer. The tabloid headlines will be lurid.” 

Mycroft sighed, as if from sincere regret. “The Murder of the Great Detective.”

John twisted sideways to stare at him in disbelief. As Mycroft continued to gaze with melancholy into the middle distance, disbelief rapidly changed to heart-hammering fear. Then Mycroft blinked and smiled again.

“Of course, you'll both be perfectly safe. We're on our way to a small military airfield where a helicopter will take you to your destination. My brother is already there, I believe. I'm sorry to have to involve you in this, but the choices of hostage were either you or Mrs Hudson, and as an officer and a gentleman, I'm sure you prefer it to be you. Besides, when leveraging Sherlock Holmes, it doesn't pay to go halfway.”

“Leveraging Sherlock to do what, exactly?” John gritted out. Bloody Holmses. Bloody pair of drama queens.

“If you would roll up your sleeve, sir,” the body guard ordered. John ignored him.

“The project is so shocking I refuse to discuss it. You'll be fully briefed upon your arrival,” Mycroft replied. His mouth had a pinched look of obvious disgust. 

“Then why is this happening? Why are you trying to force Sherlock to do something you…” John asked, then paused in realization. “Oh. Alright, that's bad. You can't stop it, can you?”

“No,” Mycroft replied tersely. “It is completely beyond my power.”

“Sir, your sleeve,” the man prompted. John gave a huff of irritation and leaned into Mycroft, pressing their shoulders together, as he pulled his arm from his jacket sleeve. 

“This kind of sedation isn’t safe,” he complained to Mycroft. “Can’t we just go with a bag over the head and maybe zip ties?”

Mycroft made an annoyed clucking noise. John scowled and yanked open his shirt cuff to expose the bare skin of his forearm, and then glared at the man when he jabbed him with the syringe, not bothering to prepare the injection site.

The drug took effect so quickly that John couldn't even properly sit up again before it flooded his system. _Probably methohexital_ he thought. He slumped against Mycroft like a puppet with its strings cut. Mycroft caught him in an awkward embrace before he could land face first in the man's lap. Mycroft's voice reverberated where John's ear was pressed against his chest.

“No, I can't help you, and I'll regret it until my dying day. Look after him for me, John.” 

Then the world faded away.

* * *

_Dear John,_

_I'm afraid our association has been a very great inconvenience to you. I hope you are not too put out with me over this unfortunate incident and that you will forgive me for being relieved that you are here._

_Kindest regards,  
SH_

* * *

John woke in a dimly lit room. The bed was comfortable. He was still wearing his own clothes, though someone had removed his shoes and jacket and tucked him under the covers. When he sat up he felt his usual post-anaesthesia nausea and was relieved to see that whoever had put him into bed had considered this possibility and placed a waste paper basket within arm's reach. After a proper puke, he took a better look at the small bedroom. To his surprise, there was an en suite. As prisons went, this one seemed determined to be more like a pleasant hotel room. He got shakily to his feet. He found a toothbrush on the sink. He ripped the wrapper off and scrubbed the vomit taste out of his mouth. He splashed water on his face and over his head, so it ran cool down the back of his neck. 

The towel from the shelf over the toilet was remarkably soft and smelled sweet, but the cup by the sink was plastic and the mirror over the sink was stainless steel. There was no door on the bathroom and he realized no door on the bedroom, either. So, still a prison, then. Well, time to find out what other delights his cell had to offer.

Now more aware of his surroundings, John noted that the bedroom had a modest writing desk on the other side of the bed. To his amazement, there was a tablet computer sitting on it. He picked it up, carrying it with him.

The next room was a small sitting room, complete with sofa and a pair of comfortable arm chairs, coffee table, and modest entertainment system against the wall opposite a closed door. It was really quite cosy and comfortable looking. And of course, what sitting room would be complete without one consulting detective sprawled over the sofa? It was too short for him – Sherlock's booted feet stuck out over the low arm – yet he lay there staring at the ceiling, fingers steepled under his chin. Thinking. His eyes fell to John in the doorway.

“You just got in the car, didn't you?” Sherlock accused dryly.

John didn't dignify his comment with an answer, just scowled at him.

“And _you_ got here how?” John asked pointedly.

“Armed men, waiting in the flat. They jabbed me with a sedative before I realized they were there. They shouldn't have been able to take me by surprise like that. I blame Mycroft; I'm sure he gave them a key. You could have made a break for it, at least,” Sherlock groused at him. He went back to staring at the ceiling.

“Maybe if I were Jason Bourne,” John retorted. “Besides, the milk was in the boot already.”

“Ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“So who are you supposed to be? James Bond?” John asked. Sherlock was kitted out in battle dress, all black. John didn't like the implications of that at all. “What is it Mycroft wants from you this time? This isn't his usual style.”

“I presume from the preposterous clothes I found when I woke up that I've been conscripted. Though I was wondering how Mycroft planned to ensure my cooperation with whatever this endeavour turns out to be. With no data, I had hypothesized seven strategies he might attempt, each more outrageous than the last. A threat to a loved one seemed an obvious choice, though I honestly didn't think he'd stoop to involving third parties. Still, what's a hostage or two between brothers?”

“Well, black suits you, and at least they didn't shave your head,” John commented. 

Sherlock made the same disapproving noise his brother had made in the car. John wondered if Sherlock realized the both did that, and who they had learned it from.

“So?” John ventured. “Mycroft said we'd be briefed. Has anyone told you anything? Where are we, anyway?”

“We are somewhere in the far northern reaches of Scotland. And they've told me everything,” Sherlock replied. He waved to the tablet computer in John's hands. “Try not to laugh. A madman named Singh wants my DNA to contribute to his super-soldier project.”

John accepted the tablet with a frown, sitting down in the armchair and tapping the screen to bring it to life.

“You are _kidding_ me,” he muttered.

“No, no,” Sherlock assured him. “According to the tablet there, everyone is doing it. The Israelis already have soldiers in the field. The Chinese are close. The Russians are doing some very interesting exercises in Pakistan.”

“It was bound to happen, I suppose,” John said absently, reviewing the folder titles. “Genome mapping is getting much faster and cheaper.” His eyes widened as he tapped one folder. “And then there's nano-technology.”

“Singh's methods appear sound, “ Sherlock said. “There are records going back to his earliest experiments in the late '80's and he's been successfully replicating results in humans since 1997.”

John found the relevant folders, opening and scanning through the contents.

“There are over a hundred living human subjects here,” he breathed.

“All alive and thriving,” Sherlock informed him. “The regenerative capabilities Singh has worked into their cells is remarkable.”

John opened a case file. It took him several minutes to read through it, jumping from bookmark to bookmark in the electronic text, scrolling rapidly through the lengthy document. He finally looked up again to find Sherlock watching him raptly.

“A medical opinion?” Sherlock demanded immediately. Not as if he ever really needed one, but John thought Sherlock respected the complexity of the human body and its systems enough that he preferred a professional opinion even after he had reached his own conclusions.

“They're not aging?” John wondered aloud. “Degenerative illnesses cured… Stage IV cancers eliminated as if they never existed…” He shook his head in amazement. 

“When you read the cytological studies, you'll see that the cells of the oldest test subjects have been replicating for years without any apparent degeneration in the RNA. Singh seems to have created the perfect human specimen,” Sherlock said. “They are stronger, healthier, use calories and water and oxygen more efficiently, don't get sick.”

“Possibly don't die?” John asked, looking for the folder for the cytological studies. 

“And yet?” Sherlock prompted.

John raised his eyebrows and paged back to the case file, looking at the bookmark index more carefully, clicking through it more slowly.

“No increase in intelligence,” he realized. 

“Exactly!” Sherlock declared. “In everything else, Singh is getting orders of magnitude of improvement. He's been able to raise IQ slightly, and all his test subjects are more intelligent than average, but he can't be happy with these results. He doesn't seem like the type to settle for incremental improvement,” Sherlock said. “If he's going for super-intelligence, he hasn't found the right DNA donors yet.”

“Therefore…” John waved his hand around the room absently, still scrolling through documents, clicking ones that looked interesting.

Sherlock didn't respond. 

“Okay,” John said. “But you were in A&E three times in the last two months. If a secret government eugenics project needed your DNA, it would have been pretty easy to get whatever they needed without you ever even suspecting. Why are you all…” John gestured broadly to Sherlock's clothes, “…Andy McNabb?”

“There are actually three involuntary participants: myself, Chavelle Clarke, and Mei-Hua Li,” Sherlock told him. John had seen folders for all three of them. He clicked them open one after the other.

“They've listed you as a super-processor. Chavelle Clarke is Jamaican. They have her down as a super-calculator and then there's, huh.” John squinted at the screen. “A psychic? Mei-Hua Li, formerly of Hong Kong. Apparently she can influence the emotional state of other people under laboratory conditions.”

John swallowed hard.

“So Singh is going to try to graft your ability to collect and understand data, a savant's capacity to handle calculations, and _psychic powers_ onto a bunch of possibly immortal people? It doesn't get much more super-human than that.” 

“He's going for orders of magnitude,” Sherlock agreed. “Notice the list of subjects for the next round of enhancement. They're are all geniuses already.”

John tapped back up the file tree.

“They're all geniuses _and_ widely published specialists in important fields. How do you get that many smart, successful academics to join a military experiment?” John asked. “Can it be possible they don't know? This isn't some kind of think tank. Singh is designing weapons.”

“Did you notice the mix of specialty areas?” Sherlock prompted.

John read them out.

“Cryogenics. Astrophysics. Aeronautical engineering. Computer science. That's what I don't understand. These are people who should be working for the European Space Agency or NASA, not volunteering to be guinea pigs for some kind of enhanced human military whatever-we're-calling-this.” Then he frowned and looked up at Sherlock. “Wait? Is that what they're doing?”

“After the whole Copernican thing, I defer to you,” Sherlock replied. “But the mix of fields certainly seems suggestive.”

“But that's crazy! Singh can't be planning to go into space?”

“That's what I thought,” Sherlock said. “But what other reason is there, aside from space travel?”

“That can't possibly be the main thrust of this program,” John decided. “It can't. Governments don't really care about space travel and space colonization. As a government project, this is clearly a bid to create a better human for the battlefield.”

“And yet… Soldiers don't really need a great ability for deduction. Soldiers don't need psychic powers. Singh successfully created what the military really needs years ago. He's setting the stage for something else, and he's convinced his sponsors to allow it,” Sherlock murmured. “He recruited these individuals. He has a larger plan.”

John tossed the tablet onto the table between them.

“I still don't understand why they brought you here, personally, no matter what he’s planning. It seems like having someone like you anywhere near this place is a disaster waiting to happen,” John said.

“You flatter me, John,” Sherlock said dismissively. “But I fail to see what sort of threat I pose. Even Mycroft couldn’t put an end to this program. It must be protected at the very heights of power.”

“But I just don’t see the point,” John insisted. “Bringing you three here as kidnap victims and using hostages to force your participation is just...unnecessarily complicated. If they needed to take samples by force, they could have done it more safely and conveniently far from here. There was no reason to tell you – everything!” He waved the tablet in the air then tossed it onto the coffee table between them. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Sherlock had been contemplating the ceiling, fingers under his chin. Now he turned his head so that he could stare directly at John, with a look that suggested sympathy for the state of idiocy that was John's entire existence.

With a sudden feeling of inevitability, John grabbed the tablet from the table. He tapped until he brought up the list of subjects for the next procedure. An even hundred of genius academics, with Khan Noonien Singh listed at the top of the page, the rest following in alphabetical order. 

His eyes skated past the name _CLARKE, Chavelle_ and landed squarely on _HOLMES, Sherlock_.

“I don't understand. Why would they force you to be test subjects?” John demanded. “They shouldn't need you. They're splicing sequences into adult cells. They should have plenty of volunteers. Hell, they _have_ had plenty of volunteers. All these successful subjects were terminal patients in hospice. I don't understand why they need _you_.”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Why not me? Why not a few dozen geniuses? If he can't get his orders of magnitude by engineering, he can get it by natural means.” Sherlock snorted. “You can't miss the implications of the fact that he's building a super-soldier program with a perfect one-to-one male to female ratio.”

John gave a disbelieving laugh.

“Well, in any case, I have an appointment with Dr Singh in about an hour. More data. Should be enlightening.”

John shook his head and got up from his chair.

“Is there any tea in this place?” he asked, as he went through to the tiny kitchenette on the other side of the sitting room.

* * *

Mei-Hua Li sat alone in the drab conference room, waiting for the others to arrive, wishing she could turn down the bright florescent lights to ease the ache in her head. The guards outside the door were bored. The facility hummed with so many people and their thoughts, but that wasn't the source of Mei-Hua's headache. She had spent hours sorting though the different minds here, trying to find answers to the questions raised by the information on the tablet. She most wanted Dr Singh's thoughts, but she hadn't been able to find him. Too many people. Excited, busy people, anticipating tomorrow's events. She had stumbled upon the mind of one Dr John Watson, who experienced fear with the most interesting calm. She had felt her sister, Chu-Hua, far from her, and carefully guarded. Mei-Hua's guards had been told to treat her as the most dangerous person in the program, and they were right, though her guiding principal had always been never to use her abilities to hurt another person.

The current circumstances would have been an exception, she thought, if not for Dr Singh's foresight. She knew she could not reach her sister in time to save her, and so Mei-Hua waited to hear what Dr Singh would say to Ms Clarke, Mr Holmes and herself about their fate.

The first to arrive was Mr Holmes, a tall, light-skinned man with dark, curly hair, and pale, all-seeing eyes.

“Ms Li,” he greeted her, not offering his hand to shake, for which she was grateful. 

“Mr Holmes,” she replied. He was circling the boring room, examining walls and floor as if he would solve some gruesome ritual murder by the things he would learn. She was a Londoner, after all. Sherlock Holmes was a local celebrity. 

Ms Clark arrived while he still paced restlessly. She was very short, with amber skin and chestnut eyes. Her black hair was cut close to her skull. Ms Clarke took a chair immediately and then waited, utterly still, an odd balance to Mr Holmes' swirl of movement. 

Mei-Hua was intensely curious about both of them. They were exceptional people, as strange as herself in their own ways, and she was drawn to them the way she was always drawn to other psychics on the rare occasions she met real ones. Mr Holmes and Ms Clark were equally fascinating. He was angry, and underneath it, anxious. His mind was unusual, his emotions shallow, and tightly controlled. In her experience, the average person in his place would be drowning in fear and despair. But perhaps, his experience with crime and its results had made him more rational than others in the face of danger. Still, Mei-Hua hated to feel the suffering of others. She reached out to soothe his distress with her mind, to extended a gentle reassurance, calm before the next task, which was sure to be very unpleasant.

Mr Holmes stopped abruptly and turned his head so that he was staring at her intently.

“I'll thank you to not do that, Ms Li,” he snapped. She gave a gasp as he pushed her mind away. “My thoughts are my own, and I'll feel what I like. I don't need your assistance.”

Mei-Hua was shocked. There were people whom she could not influence, most of whom were other psychics. But she had _never_ … no one had _ever_ … people didn't _know_ like that. People did not recognize her mental promptings as anything but their own emotions.

 _“How?”_ she whispered to his mind and she had the small satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in amazement at this communication. Then he scowled, annoyed, ceasing his pacing and settling in the chair across the table from her, hands pressed together as if in prayer beneath his chin, as he leaned backwards and contemplated the ceiling.

Mei-Hua drew away from his mind. He was now turning an innumerable number of observations over and over. It was unnerving to feel what she knew Dr Singh was planning for her – for all of them, really. She wasn't sure how Mr Holmes could stand it, so much thinking. She knew it must be constant, she felt it was his normal state, always, always thinking.

Mei-Hua blocked him out and turned her attention to Ms Clarke. 

And she found nothing.

Ms Clarke's thoughts were still, and where she should have felt something – fear, anger, calm, curiosity, _anything_ \- there was just nothing.

That nothingness terrified her. In her panic, Mei-Hua projected that terror to everyone around her, as if she were still a toddler, making everyone else hurt and cry when she skinned her knee on the pavement. The guards in the hall gripped their weapons tighter as their hearts began to pound. Mr Holmes came up straight in his chair, feet flat on the floor, palms pressing into the table, preparing to fight an enemy that was nowhere to be seen. Even Ms Clarke started.

“What are they doing?” Mei-Hua, this time aloud. “What are you?” she asked Ms Clarke. 

She found the answer with Mr Holmes. He had already returned to his original calm, dispassionate state. His whirl of thoughts had settled on one conclusion, and she could feel it.

He was thinking _psychopath and sociopath_.

“Dr Singh is creating what evolution cannot achieve, Ms Li,” he said aloud. “Ms Clarke and I are critical, I think.”

“Indeed, Mr Holmes,” Dr Singh agreed from the doorway. Mei-Hua had not felt his approach, but now he was very present in her mind and she reached out with all her resources to learn everything.

“Sentiment and attachment are weaknesses that it is high time we removed from the human genome, but it is so difficult to find the right genetic material to root them out. So many individuals who truly feel no sentiment are hobbled by completely unacceptable mental disorders and learning disabilities, but you,” he gestured to the two of them. “You are a gift to my augmented humans.” He smiled in pleased delight. Mr Holmes and Ms Clarke were going to give him everything he wanted. They were the key to making the world a better place, ridding it of all the biological trash that was weighing down evolution, holding humanity back from perfection.

With their help, he would purge the world. That anticipation circled at the top of his mind, and permeated every corner of his thought. They would start in Pakistan and spread outward toward China in one direction, through Afghanistan to the Mediterranean in the other. They would kill and destroy and burn until they brought whole regions to heel. 

Mei-Hua understood. Dr Singh was utterly, completely insane.

She could stop him. All she had to do was get Mr Holmes and Ms Clarke out. They could leave right now. She could shut down every guard that stood in their way. She had never done it, but she thought she could, by touching the right part of a person's mind, induce the heart to stop beating, the lungs to stop breathing. Of course, she knew she would sacrifice her sister. 

Except. 

It wouldn't matter, because it wasn't them anymore. It was their blood and cells and DNA that Dr Singh needed, and he already had those. 

She would have to kill Dr Singh instead. She stared at him as he stood at the end of the conference table in that boring room, smiling at them, so excited and pleased. She could do it. She should do it. It was her duty to the rest of humanity. Her whole body shook with revulsion in the presence of his thoughts.

She could do it. 

And she didn't. He stood there, still breathing, still delighted and giddy about what he would do tomorrow, and all the days after. She was too selfish and squeamish to crush his mind and kill him. He would succeed because of her. She knew it. She felt shame and horror, but it didn't change anything. She couldn't make herself do what she knew she must.

Mr Holmes was watching her, following her reactions and movements at the periphery of his vision, even as his gaze was focused on Dr Singh. She drew in on herself. She didn't want to know if he had already reached one of his strange, miraculous deductions. She didn't want to know if he understood that he was contributing a large part of what Dr Singh needed so that he could undertake a mass murder on the scale of the greatest holocausts of the twentieth century. She didn't want to know if he knew that she was failing to stop it.

“I must again object in the strongest terms to being held against my will. And I do not consent to the use of my genetic material for any reason,” Ms Clarke stated. She, at least, was oblivious.

“I agree with Ms Clarke,” Mei-Hua said, because she could still protest. “I am British, you have no right to keep me here.”

Dr Singh frowned. “I had hoped that you would see what is being offered to you, and forgive the way that you were brought into the program. However, your contribution is too critical. I'm afraid I may have alienated you by my aggressive strategy, but I could not risk that any of you would reject the opportunity to volunteer.”

“I don't understand why you need us at all,” Ms Clarke replied tartly. “All you needed was a couple of pints of blood, and since no one has taken any sort of tissue sample from me since I arrived here and our 'procedure' is scheduled for tomorrow, I assume you acquired all the material you needed from me, at least, months ago.”

“Sadly, it is not a simple as patching your extraordinary minds into other people. Genetics isn't everything, after all,” Dr Singh said. “The three of you understand what you can do, and how to use your minds to their maximum potential. Without your assistance, I believe my project will take many years to bring to fruition. However, with your guidance, I'm hoping to reduce the preparation time to months.”

“You believe that I will teach you to use my abilities as a weapon on the battlefield,” Mei-Hua said softly. “You think I will teach them to put fear into the hearts of their enemies.” She directed fear at Dr Singh, so that he blanched and went pale with terror. But he found the strength for a sickly, wavering smile.

“Ms Li, you should consider your situation carefully. There is so much Chu-Hua could lose,” Dr Singh threatened.

“Dull!” exclaimed Mr Holmes. All eyes turned toward him. Mei-Hua released Dr Singh's mind and he collapsed in relief, all remaining fear of his own making. Mr Holmes gestured to the three involuntary participants. “Daughter, sister, lover,” he said. “It's clear that you think you can control us. If there's nothing more interesting to discuss than threats against our respective hostages, I'm sure we'd all prefer to be let go from this useless exercise to do something more interesting with our final hours as humans.”

Dr Singh shook his head.

“You fail to comprehend, Mr Holmes. Today you are human. Tomorrow you will be _better_.”

Mei-Hua quailed at the way Mr Holmes' eyes went dead and cold.

“But we're already _better_ ,” he sneered. “ _That's_ why we're _here_.”

Mei-Hua felt Dr Singh's wounded ego. He felt inferior, especially before Mr Holmes. It made him angry, but also ashamed. It seemed to her that Mr Holmes must know this, too, that he was deliberately provoking him. 

“You have a reputation for being uncooperative, Mr Holmes. I hope that is not going to be an impediment to the project moving forward.”

Mr Holmes laughed. It was a harsh sound, and the smile that accompanied it immediately went as flat as his untouched eyes.

“You are about to make ninety-nine more people exactly like me, yourself included. I should think you would have considered the consequences of this ludicrous proposition. Everyone who has ever met me would have told you that I'm impossible to work with. Dr Watson would surely testify, if you need a character witness.”

“And Dr Watson won't thank you if you continue in this vein, Mr Holmes,” Dr Singh rebutted angrily.

Mr. Holmes leaned toward him, anger and arrogance in every line of his body.

“Do you understand that when my brother advised you not to involve me in this little endeavour, he wasn't protecting me? He was trying to protect you,” Mr Holmes growled at Dr Singh. Mr Holmes stood abruptly and turned to Mei-Hua. “Was there any point to this meeting?” he asked her.

“Dr Singh hoped to persuade us to become voluntary participants,” Mei-Hua said.

“And also to remind you that by making you subjects of the program, and giving you unrestricted access to the research, if you attempt to leave you will be hunted by every intelligence agency and military in the world,” Dr Singh interjected.

“So John and I would prefer servitude to Queen and Country, rather than the Russians or Americans?” Mr Holmes turned on his heel and stalked toward the door. “We're through here. Tomorrow at 10:00, I believe,” he sneered, lip twisted up at the side in derision. Dr Singh nodded to the armed guard standing at the door. Ms Clarke also rose from her seat, and Mei-Hua, stood with her. They trailed out of the room in Mr Holmes' wake.


	2. Damned Holmeses (Or The Detective, the British Government, and the Correspondence Card)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night before Sherlock's procedure.

* * *

Dear John,

There's always something.

Sherlock

* * *

Sherlock arrived back from his meeting in a frenzy of movement and muttering. He paced the small sitting room, sometimes pausing to close his eyes and have a look around his mind palace. John had been in the middle of dealing with the vomit in the wastepaper basket when Sherlock returned and seeing the state of him, he went back to finish the job. He wouldn't get anything but insults from Sherlock when he was in this particular mood. He left the basket tipped upside down in the bathtub to dry, then braved the front room again.

Sherlock stood stock still, staring at him as if he had sprouted a second head. John turned around to be sure there wasn't something behind him.

"What?" he demanded.

"If I ever get out of this place, the first thing I'm going to do is kill Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, resuming his pacing. 

"Not to argue with you, but he did seem to think it was me or Mrs Hudson. I'd rather it were me," John said mildly. 

"It would have been much safer for everyone if he had just sent Mrs Hudson," Sherlock complained.

He flopped onto the couch in his usual sprawl. John turned to the kitchen, thinking to put the kettle on.

"It's worse than I thought," Sherlock said quietly. "They aren't trying to make you. They're trying to make me."

John turned back, standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"What does that mean? Of course they're trying to make you. It's your brain they want, not mine."

"They're making a super soldier," Sherlock said, sitting up to stare at John intently over the top of the couch. "You would think they would be looking for traits like loyalty, selflessness, courage..."

"Yeah, well, if that's what they were looking for, they've already got plenty of that to work with. They wouldn't have bothered with this," John said gesturing to the two of them with a humourless chuckle. "What they want is brain power."

"No, what they want is a psychopath," Sherlock declared. He fell backwards, so that he was hidden from John's view, flat on his back again.

John walked around the couch.

"I hate when you say that. I know you're not, and so do you," he said, looking down at Sherlock. He was surprised to see how distressed he appeared.

"No, I'm not. Not exactly,” Sherlock agreed. “But I think maybe Chavelle Clarke is. And I don't think either of us really believes I’m entirely _normal_ , either, not that I’ve ever cared to be, but I can tell right from wrong and care about it... most of the time. I have never been interested in being a criminal. I don’t want someone to reach inside my DNA and make me into Moriarity – or something even worse.”

John sat on the edge of the coffee table. “So this somehow connects to Mrs Hudson?” John asked. “I’m confused.”

Sherlock scowled at the ceiling. “I tend to treat you possessively under the best of circumstances,” he replied. “What if you became just an object to me? I don’t think that would be safe at all.”

“But Mrs Hudson would be safer?” John prompted. He was trying to understand.

Sherlock was stubbornly silent. Fine, he wanted John to work it out for himself. So it was probably something Sherlock didn’t want to say. 

“You think for some reason, you would hurt me, but you wouldn’t hurt her,” John thought aloud. “That doesn’t make any sense. Unless you spend your days fantasizing about punching me in the head?”

"I don't fantasize every day," Sherlock replied. "And not usually about doing you violence. Well, there are the worst days between cases, but I doubt I'll get that bored here."

John stared at Sherlock's profile as he parsed that response. Sherlock fantasized about him? It seemed unlikely that Sherlock could possibly mean that as it sounded. Still. What else would that mean, except that Sherlock was sexually attracted to him? 

"So you have come to the conclusion that, absent your usual moral scruples, such as they are, you might act on your fantasies by... attacking me?" John couldn't quite bring himself to use the word 'rape.' Sherlock scowled at the ceiling. 

"Alright," John said, with a sense of disbelief. "Firstly, it seems much more likely that you would just somehow manipulate me into having sex with you, probably while trying to make me think the whole thing was _my_ idea." Sherlock redirected the scowl from the ceiling to John. John shrugged and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Secondly, you have a lifetime of knowing right from wrong, and we've been living together for over a year. Even if Singh can make you all into complete psychopaths, self-centred and unable to form normal attachments, I don't think you will forget how to behave around me. If nothing else, there's months of well-formed habit you would have to disregard."

"We don't really know, though," Sherlock said quietly, looking away from him again. "I'd like to think that would be the case, but what if it's not?"

John was relieved that Sherlock had gone back to staring up at the ceiling, as John considered what to say next. He wanted to glare at the cameras watching them, that had already witnessed Sherlock's non-confession. Some things were only supposed to be known by two people.

"Damned Holmeses," he muttered to himself. Sherlock's eye twitched. 

John licked dry lips and took a deep breath. The tremor in his hand was entirely still. He shut his eyes and opened them. _Alright, here goes nothing_ , he thought.

"Then future Sherlock should consider logically that although it is possible to use force to get what you want, it is often better and easier to get what you want through cooperation. You know, that's where emotions probably came from. They were needed for animals living in social groups to work together to achieve goals." Sherlock cut his eyes over, his expression clearly communicating that Sherlock felt John had strayed from the point. "Fine," John huffed. "I'm saying before you use force, you should try persuasion."

Sherlock's eyes went narrow and sharp. He slowly sat up to face him.

"I don't understand," Sherlock said doubtfully. "What did I miss?" John took advantage of Sherlock's shift in position to sit by him, against the arm of the couch. John patted his thigh, and Sherlock's eyes widened. John made a face at him and tugged his sleeve until Sherlock gave in and lay his head down in John's lap, turning on his back to stare up at him. His head was warm and heavy on John's leg. John carefully touched his fingers to Sherlock's forehead, smoothing across the wrinkles there, watching him think from the best seat in the house.

"Oh, obvious," Sherlock breathed. "That night at Angelo's. I brushed you off with Mycroft's stupid speech... In my own defence, I barely knew you, and I was working. Then you led me to think I had misunderstood entirely, and I hate dealing with that sort of romantic advance, so I was more than happy to believe I had got it wrong, except obviously, I hadn't."

"What? You think I was chatting you up? Honestly? You know I can pull. That was _not_ me chatting you up." John said, trying to sound offended but unable to stop himself from laughing, thinking back to that horrible, awkward conversation. 

"Yes, fine," Sherlock snapped petulantly. "Then I _don't_ understand. You always tell everyone how straight you are, whether they pay you any attention or not."

"I'm not gay!" John protested, prodding Sherlock in the forehead with one finger. "The whole thing crept up on me, what with the coat and the cheekbones and the dinners where all you do is watch me eat. Then I figured after the 'married-to-my-work' speech it was a non-issue, so I didn't worry about it too much. Which is why we are about to have a pleasant shared sexual identity crisis."

Sherlock glared at him.

"I'm not having an identity crisis," Sherlock stated indignantly. "Why would I be having an identity crisis?"

"Because your brother thinks you have never had sex, Irene Adler failed to seduce you, and Greg and Mrs Hudson both agree that they can't remember you ever being involved with anyone. Besides, if you weren't having an identity crisis, you would have deduced my interest in you months ago, then had a good gloat while walking me through the evidence," John retorted.

Sherlock looked about to sulk.

"Don't make that face," John said softly, drawing a finger down the side of Sherlock's jaw, then along his frown, then back up over his cheekbone to the corner of his eye. He stroked over his eyebrow, making him sigh.

"This is nice," Sherlock said, just as softly.

"Did Mycroft really write you a speech for spurning unwanted advances?" John asked, unable to stop a chuckle.

"There may have been an unfortunate scene at one of Mummy's New Year's parties, ages ago. Mycroft suggested I should have something prepared."

"Written on a napkin?" John snorted. Sherlock made a face.

"That's disgusting from this angle, you know," Sherlock protested. "And of course not. A paper napkin in Mummy's home? Really? He wrote it on a correspondence card from her study. He suggested I keep the card on me at all times, or possibly tattoo the script onto my forearm. As if I couldn’t remember three sentences."

"He probably figured you would delete it as soon as there was something useful that needed space, like, I don't know, a witness's mother's maiden name or something."

Sherlock sighed the sigh of the put upon. 

"Sorry, sorry," John said. He was rapidly falling into a fit of helpless laughter. Sherlock sat up and resettled himself practically on John's lap. A little smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm glad we can amuse you," he said. John pressed his face into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's arms went around him. It felt good.

"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked as John's quiet snickering didn't stop.

"You can tell Mycroft it was some of his best work," John said, and felt Sherlock shiver as John's lips brushed against the bare skin of his throat. He still couldn't stop laughing.

"John?" Sherlock whispered.

"Just give me a second," John said. "I think I'm having a breakdown. I keep thinking how I don't want you to be taller. We're already ridiculous. But from the notes it looks like you're probably a full two inches shy of Singh's ideal human..."

He felt Sherlock kiss the top of his head, warm breath ruffling through John's hair.

"We're out of luck on that one, I'm afraid," Sherlock agreed. He pushed himself back a bit, so that he could bring them face-to-face. His cheeks were flushed pink, and his eyes seemed huge and black, their usual pale grey a thin ring. John's giggles faded away. John felt the shift between them as they leaned together instinctively.

"You used the word 'crisis,'" Sherlock murmured, and John licked the words directly from his lips. Sherlock leaned away again, maybe to continue talking, John didn't care, he chased the kiss. It was uncoordinated and awkward, Sherlock was too tall, he was twisted sideways, their teeth clicked together painfully. John growled and caught him by his hair, bringing them together perfectly to plunder Sherlock's surprisingly sweet mouth.

Once they connected, John didn't let go and Sherlock forgot about talking, or gave up, and John floated along under the familiar influence of the adrenaline – kissing Sherlock Holmes, what was he thinking? – until Sherlock tipped their foreheads together and their mouths apart and just panted against him. John's palm rested on Sherlock's neck. His pulse was pounding. John licked his lips and watched Sherlock's eyelids tremble over his closed eyes.

"Crisis, you said crisis," Sherlock repeated, his voice pitched very low, his words carrying just the slightest tremor.

"Yes, I did. Yeah." John agreed.

"Does your crisis allow for a more comfortable position?" Sherlock suggested. John chuckled and Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"Stop that," he ordered sharply. "You can't have another breakdown, there's no time."

John pushed at him to get him to sit up so John could stand. Sherlock caught him and pulled him back.

"Let go, just lie down," John coaxed. Sherlock fell back against the arm of the couch as instructed. John straddled him, getting a knee on either side of Sherlock's hips. _Getting a leg over_ and he nearly dissolved into giggles again, he felt them coming. Then he looked down into Sherlock's face, and saw his expression of mixed trepidation and desire, and all John wanted was to forget his crisis, this stupid place, what was going to happen to Sherlock in a few hours. His tricky right leg pressed into the couch cushions, but he could barely set his left knee on the outer side, and he could never trust his left shoulder to take the strain. _To hell with it_ , he thought, and let his full weight settle onto Sherlock. He sighed as their bodies came together and his mouth touched Sherlock's again, swallowing his friend's answering gasp.

"Okay?" John asked.

"Good. Yes." Sherlock stuttered back. Sherlock touched their lips together, with slight presses and small tastes. He could feel Sherlock's heart thudding in his chest, or maybe that was his own, it didn't matter, he let his kisses smear away from Sherlock's mouth, down his jaw, to his neck, sucking, biting, tasting. Sherlock squirmed under the attention, his fingernails gouging what John imagined would be neat rows of half moon scratches on either side of his spine. Sherlock whined, arching into him. He was hard, and John wasn't far behind.

"John," Sherlock murmured, and John briefly wondered if it was going to be a good or bad thing to have left him free to chat, but then, that would be one of the joys of a romance with Sherlock, wouldn't it, whatever mad thing he would pop out with at the least appropriate time? "You should know that I _did_ have a bit of a crisis myself, so I understand, but I had mine while I was wearing that stupid shock blanket standing next to Lestrade nearly writing your name out for him, as if he weren't going to work it out for himself in a few minutes. The point is, I've completely moved on from my crisis now, and…"

John stopped him with a deep dirty kiss that made Sherlock moan and arch again. John growled in response. It was a long time before Sherlock got to finish his thought, but when John let him up for air again, he continued, "I was just saying that I've been over _my_ crisis for quite some time and if it fits with your ongoing crisis, I'd like to go to bed with you."

Sherlock was looking at him with that strangely still, blank expression that he wore when he expected a confrontation with John over something - _I've disappointed you_. John wasn't ready, but he wasn't stopping, either. John touched his finger to Sherlock's lips, reddened and wet from kissing, then he clambered to his feet and held out his hand to help his friend up from the sofa.

Standing so close, Sherlock towered over him. John shook his head in mock-despair and Sherlock's lip curled up in an acknowledging half-smile.

They didn't take their time getting undressed, though John's _ongoing crisis_ made him climb in beside an utterly naked Sherlock still wearing his pants. For some reason Sherlock must have found this hilarious, as he smirked at him, then they were tangling themselves together under the sheets. John realized his mistake as Sherlock set teeth to his neck and ground down on him, pressing him into the mattress. John's world blanked out in a sudden orgasm of such intensity that he completely missed Sherlock's. When he came back to himself he was sprawled half on top of his bed partner, face mashed into the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's bare chest. He was horrified to find he had drooled a bit during his post-coital nap. He somewhat ineffectually wiped at the smear of saliva on Sherlock's chest, then realized that Sherlock had also fallen asleep without bothering to clean either one of them up, and gave it up for a bad job. They'd need showers to get clean at this point. He pushed his soiled pants off and winced thinking of someone else doing his laundry.

He was suddenly wrapped in long arms and legs. Sherlock pulled them back together, face-to-face on the same pillow.

"You're an idiot. We should have done this months ago," Sherlock said. John sighed and worked a hand free to stroke it though Sherlock's hair.

"They're going to make you cut this, you know," John said. He regretted the loss already.

"No," Sherlock denied flatly.

"Yes. They can't deploy you like this. If they don't cut it, I will," John said firmly. Sherlock didn't say anything, just watched him across the little expanse of pillow between them.

"You'll want it shorter, in Africa or whatever Asian desert they send you to," he said softly. He let his fingers twist, the curl winding round them. "I wonder if they'll let you come back here before they start your field training." 

"That will be dull, tedious and monumentally boring. What a disaster," Sherlock grumbled. "Can you imagine a dozen of me, against a drill sergeant? The man will wish he had never enlisted." 

"You underestimate drill sergeants," John said. He tightened his fingers in Sherlock's hair, pulling. "I don't care how dull it is, pay attention and learn whatever thing it is they are trying to teach you."

Sherlock went stiff against him, his face taking on that terrible blank expression.

"Of course. You needn't worry. You should know your safety is my highest priority," Sherlock said coldly.

John yanked his hair hard, making him flinch.

"Not that, you git. They are going to send you somewhere to show you off – they have to – and when you get there, you need to know everything."

Sherlock relaxed.

"Where would you choose to show off your legions of super-soldiers?" Sherlock asked.

John let loose his hair and resumed twisting it around his fingers. Sherlock stroked his hand up and down John's back and side.

"I don't want to think about it," John said. He traced his fingers down around the curve of Sherlock's ear and the line of his throat to touch the dark hair on his chest.

"I think Dr Singh is offended by body hair," Sherlock commented. "Did you note how smooth all the test subjects were in the photos?"

"He's completely mad, isn't he?" John asked. "An experimental procedure, horribly dangerous, and he's interested in something as cosmetic as body hair. I hope he hasn't considered penis size."

Sherlock made a show of rolling his eyes. "Lovely, John, if he hadn't, he certainly will now."

"Shut it," John said. "I don't need to be reminded about what we just got up to with some employee of the Ministry of Defence watching on the CCTV."

"Well, if the whole procedure gets called off in a few hours and rescheduled, we'll know why," Sherlock murmured directly in his ear. John shivered and laughed at the same time as Sherlock pushed him over and climbed on top of him again.

They didn't sleep anymore that night. Sherlock refused to get out of the bed for any reason. Mostly they just curled up together, quietly, as minutes went by and the time when Sherlock would leave came closer.

"Hey," John said, nudging his friend around 0900. "You're going soon, time to get ready." Sherlock sighed against John's neck and squeezed the arm around John's waist tighter.

* * *

Mei-Hua waited nervously. She was dressed in a white hospital gown. She sat against the wall between the bed and the sink, knees drawn up. Everything was prepared, a half dozen IV bags arranged on hangers, tubes running together, machines for purposes she only vaguely understood arrayed around her.

There had been a short reprieve for her. She had felt the other participants – the voluntary participants and Ms Clarke – surrender almost _en masse_ nearly an hour ago. The procedure had been set to start at 1000 hours precisely, and yet it was almost 1100 and she remained awake. She finally felt Mr Holmes' approach. Her dread rapidly turned to terror. Rather than rise to her feet to meet them clear-eyed, she huddled in on herself, hiding her face in her knees. A tear escaped, but just one. It soaked into the cotton of her gown.

Mei-Hua tried to focus on Mr Holmes as a distraction from her own terror. He was strangely calm, she thought. He swept into the room, then stopped abruptly. She looked up to find him surveying the whole arrangement, the two beds, side-by-side, all the equipment – felt his slight confusion until he saw her curled up in her corner. 

The doctor responsible for their "treatment" and care followed close behind.

"Mr Holmes!" Dr Millman said reproachfully. Despite her own fear, Mei-Hua couldn't help but smile at the slight curl of Mr Holmes' lip as the doctor took in the state of him. He was wrapped only in a sheet, entirely nude underneath – the doctor could only guess, but Mei-Hua knew – and from the way the doctor scowled, he must smell of all the things he had been up to overnight. Mr Holmes was quite pleased about that, she could tell. Elated.

"Yes, Dr…" Mr Holmes bent forward a bit to examine the much smaller man's badge, "Millman."

"Mr Holmes, you are here for a medical procedure. You're filthy. I must insist that you bathe."

Rather than respond to the doctor, he turned to her.

"Looks like Singh's pairing us off. That's rather optimistic of him, isn't it?" he asked her, gesturing to the two beds.

"Yes," she agreed, surprised to find she could still speak. He reached down to help her to her feet, clutching the sheet about himself with his other hand. 

"Dr Singh thinks we will see the logic of reproduction by more conventional methods after…" Her voice failed her. Holding his hand and standing so close to him, caught in the scent of him and his beloved _John_ she could understand much more clearly what was happening inside his mind. So many pieces and ideas sliding around one another so easily. She was strangely pleased when he thought that he found her attractive and intriguing, even as the thought slipped away in a heartbeat. As he pulled her to her feet, she felt the tempo in his mind increasing, the fragments cascading in a tumble that made him gasp and go completely still.

His face was a blank mask, his eyes dead. After a lifetime of knowing everything about nearly every person she met, Mei-Hua often didn't need her special talents to know what people were feeling. There were so many tells that gave everything away to a knowledgeable eye. She tore her hand from his and backed away, because now he frightened her even more than what would happen next. 

There was nothing there. Except there was everything. Behind his still features she felt terror. All the pieces had fallen into place in an avalanche of realization and now he knew what Dr Singh had projected to her in that conference room.

Those dead eyes were fixed on her face.

"You know already," he said flatly. Mei-Hua nodded agreement.

"Of course I know," she answered shakily. "He can think of nothing else. He anticipates what he will gain from you and Ms Clarke most of all, the ability to set aside his final reservations."

"Mr Holmes, I must insist," Dr Millman said, the two guards from the hallway had stepped inside. Mr Holmes turned on them, and she felt his feral urge to take one of their weapons and turn it on himself, only restrained by the pounding thought of _John_. They wouldn't need John anymore if he were dead. He hated and despised John in that moment, hated that John made him weak.

"Sentiment," he spat, and she understood, though she had been ready to give up Chu-Hua, if it could have stopped anything. She felt Mr Holmes unravel as he flung the sheet away.

"Mr Holmes!" Dr Millman exclaimed as Mr Holmes, now completely naked, crossed to the other side of the room. Mr Holmes rolled his eyes for her benefit as he turned and hopped up onto the bed.

"Mr Holmes, I must insist..." Dr Millman began.

"I'll be unconscious for days," Mr Holmes said tightly. "If you're so concerned about it, an orderly can take care of it."

She felt a bit braver, following his example and making herself lie down on the cool sheet. She let herself be distracted by his angry swirl of thoughts as the medical restraints were wrapped around her ankles and wrists almost simultaneously with the leather being buckled to hold Mr Holmes in place. The doctor gave up trying to argue with him and began preparations, including a particularly vicious application of strong-smelling disinfectant to the sites where the needles would enter.

"How can they not see?!" he shouted, interrupting Dr Millman's narration of the procedure, making his two nurses jump. Mr. Holmes' eyes were on her, as the doctor fussed. She knew he was talking about the military sponsors of this program – the government that financed it – the scientists that aided its completion.

"He offers them something they want very much, so that they disregard everything else," she replied.

"But he already gave them what they want! They have dozens of enhanced soldiers," he railed. "How did they let him continue? They don't _need_ what he's doing now."

"Am I interrupting you?" Dr Millman interjected indignantly. 

"Shut up, you prattling, smug little jumped-up college lecturer playing at geneticist. You wallow in self-importance thinking you are in charge of the two most important people here, and yet you don't understand _what we are_ ," he practically hissed the last words.

The doctor flushed with anger and resentment. Mei-Hua was amazed at his restraint as he placed the cannula into Mr Holmes' arm with professional care, all the while seething at the insulting dismissal.

Then all the needles and tubes were in place, a light sheet and hospital blanket draped over each of them. The doctor lifted the surgical steel cover from a tray holding two syringes. He lifted one and prepared it, removing the slip from the needle itself, tapping the air out. 

"These are the nanites," he announced. "They are of course customized for each of you," the tube in his hand was labelled 'LI.' She jerked reflexively against the restraint as he reached out to her arm, applying the needle of the syringe to the port of the cannula there.

"Mr Holmes is right about you," she said, panic making her voice shake. "What kind of doctor would do this to a patient?"

"Mei-Hua," Mr Holmes called softly. She tore her eyes away from the doctor's hands. "Call me Sherlock, please." She felt that Mr Holmes' mind had stilled. He was only taking in data now, about the room and the procedure, it was pure, quiet thought, his anger and fear nothing but a slight ripple in the pond of his calm intellect. She sighed and relaxed into that calm. 

"We'll be better, Mei-Hua," he said quietly. 

She felt what he was telling her. They were better than Dr Singh. He would regret involving them. 

Neither of them paid the slightest heed to the doctor's pompous announcement of "Now, Mr Holmes."

The sedatives came next, and the world faded away, but she carried his intent with her into sleep. 

They would be better. Better than Singh. She reached out to the fading consciousness of Sherlock Holmes then drifted into darkness.

* * *

Dearest John,

Sending you all my love now, in case there isn't any tomorrow.

Passionately,  
Sherlock


	3. The Bones of the Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So John waits.

* * *

J,

Transport has become so much more interesting.

However, it is even more boring in all their funny little brains than I ever imagined.

Yours always,  
S

* * *

John stared at the closed door. In what he suspected was one last attempt by Sherlock to get him to laugh, Sherlock had refused to put on any clothes, and had swept out clad only in a sheet. John stood in the strangely cosy sitting room and felt useless.

Sherlock would be in a medically induced coma for at least two weeks, while the nanites rearranged his DNA and then his body responded. Some of Dr Singh's previous procedures had taken even longer, up to seven weeks. John sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. He wondered if he would ever see the outside of these four small rooms again. 

Well, first things first, he supposed. He stripped out of his trousers. Unlike Sherlock, he had been unable to just lounge around naked waiting for people to come haul Sherlock away. He shaved in the shower. When he came out the dirty laundry was gone, and there was a stack of clean bedding on the bare mattress.

He huffed in irritation at having no clothes to put on. He wrapped the towel around his waist and with little hope went to look in the chest-of-drawers that stood beside the desk.

To his surprise, he found what at first he thought were his own clothes. But no, though the sizes were all perfect and the jumpers were identical, the clothes were new. He felt a strange pang of sadness thinking only Mycroft would have bothered to arrange something like this. John appreciated the effort. He wasn't sure what he would have done if he had opened the drawers to find one regulation No. 5 desert combat dress uniform folded up and waiting for him.

What to do with the rest of his day? He pushed away the same question about his _life_ , because there was no answer to that, and it wasn't productive. The tablet gave him full access to all of Dr Singh's reports and data. He could probably spend days going through it, and might not even be done before Sherlock reappeared. If he ever did. 

John shut down that line of thought, too.

* * *

For three days John read. He ignored the people who returned his laundry, Sherlock's abandoned uniform folded neatly on top of the sheets. He ignored the people who came and set food on the table. He slept poorly, waking from nightmares that weren't all about Afghanistan.

* * *

Sleep, shower, tea, read. He barely bothered to towel off, didn't even consider a shave, dragged on the same soft track bottoms he had been wearing to sleep in, and headed for the kettle, rubbing at his hair absently with the damp towel.

He gave a yelp when he rounded the corner and saw the little girl sitting on the couch.

She grinned at him. 

"Hello!" she said.

"Hi," he replied faintly. "How?"

"My tutor said it wasn't healthy for us to be alone all the time. He said you haven't said _one_ word to _anyone_ since they went away with the scientists." Her glare was accusatory.

He noticed the door to the corridor was ajar. He went over and peered out. There were two open doors opposite his own leading off from the tiled, grey hallway, and a closed one beside his. 

"I've been reading," he said absently. "Are you Miss Clarke?"

The little girl giggled in response to his formal greeting.

"My name is Michelle," she declared cheerfully. The door at the end of the corridor, (leading out, he supposed) was also shut. There were no guards in sight.

"I was just going to make tea," he said, even as he stepped out into the corridor and went to try the door at the end. Locked, not unexpectedly. A quick glance into the two open doors showed little flats like his own. He turned around to see Michelle in the doorway.

"Chu-Hua already made it," she said. A tiny Chinese woman stood behind her, offering him a beaker of tea with both hands.

* * *

"My hands are tired," Chu-Hua announced. "You should help."

John looked up from the tablet. 

Until today, Michelle had been wearing her hair in two short, thick braided pigtails. Now her hair was in a state, part of one side was already done in neat, tiny braids, while the rest was a wild mess of coarse hair, sticking out in all directions.

"I look like a baby," Michelle had complained yesterday, while scribbling down her maths assignment with annoyance, as easily as John would have written down the notes of a routine appendectomy. 

"You look sweet," Chu-Hua objected, reaching out to touch the girl's hair.

"I can study while you braid it," Michelle wheedled. "Marcus wants me to start _Pride and Prejudice_." Marcus was Michelle's tutor. John and Chu-Hua had not been allowed to meet him. While Michelle had her lessons, the three flats were closed and locked. Their doors only opened again at noon when they would all gravitate to one sitting room for the rest of the day.

Chu-Hua smiled.

"Alright," she agreed. "It will take a long time. We can do it tomorrow. We will start right away at lunch time."

Today was tomorrow. John had been working with the tablet on the sofa in the Clarke's sitting room while Michelle read at the dining table. Chu-Hua patiently plaited and plaited. 

"Come on," she prompted John, shaking out her hands and wrists. Michelle eyed John sceptically.

"Does he even know how?" she asked.

"Braiding is easy," Chu-Hua replied. "I will teach him."

John made a face at them both.

"I don't need you to teach me," he said, with offended dignity, setting the tablet aside. Michelle laughed.

"Good," said Chu-Hua. "I will make tea."

John picked up the comb and got started. He segmented off a section of hair, as he had seen Chu-Hua do all morning. The braids were tiny, and working with kinky hair was not the same as braiding together twine, or rope, or even the soft, silky hair of his sister's friends when he was still a little boy who was excited to play with the bigger kids, even if they were girls. His first attempt was uneven and didn't match Chu-Hua's tight, neat work at all. He pulled it out and started again. Michelle sighed.

"Don't pull," she complained.

"Read your book," he retorted.

Chu-Hua brought the tea.

The room was so quiet. 

"Mumma said they are all going to be fine," Michelle said. 

"Of course they will," John said reassuringly.

"Chu-Hua, don't cry."

John looked up in surprise, to see that Chu-Hua _was_ crying, silently, her face bent over her full beaker of tea.

Michelle put down her book and pushed her chair back. She went to Chu-Hua and took the tea from her hand, giving it to John, then she sat by her on the sofa and hugged her.

"After this, they won't get sick. Nobody will be able to hurt them," Michelle said. Chu-Hua muffled a sob in her hand.

"It's very safe. Dr Singh has done it lots of times before. When it's all done, maybe they will even let us have nanites, too."

Chu-Hua went still and sat up straight. She looked horrified.

"I don't think your sister would allow that to happen," John said quickly. He went and sat beside Michelle, meeting Chu-Hua's eyes over the girl's head. Michelle looked back and forth between the two adults in confusion.

"Here. Enough worrying. It's time for our Cantonese lesson," John said. 

"You have to finish my hair!" Michelle objected. Chu-Hua smiled weakly at her. The girl did look ridiculous. Chu-Hua wiped at her eyes. John stood and helped Chu-Hua to her feet.

"John can braid _and_ talk," Chu-Hua replied. "Excuse me." She went through the bedroom. They could hear the water running in the bathroom sink.

Michelle frowned at John.

"Mumma said they're all going to be fine," she insisted, staring into his face, searching for confirmation. 

"I'm sure she's right," John said, trying to sound confident.

When Chu-Hua came back around the corner she gave them her usual pleasant smile.

"We will talk about shopping," she said. "You can use the food words you learned yesterday."

Michelle sat on the floor at John's feet and Chu-Hua sat beside him. She began speaking in a soft mixture of English and Cantonese, while she watched John braid Michelle's hair. Michelle proved yet again that she was better at catching the tones than John was. When the guards came with their dinner, Michelle's hair was a mass of tiny plaits. They ate the soup and sandwiches practicing Cantonese. Tomorrow John and Michelle would coach Chu-Hua on her English.

All afternoon, John tried to convince himself that Michelle was right. Sherlock would be fine.

* * *

John was having tea with cold toast (It never arrived hot. Why could he have a kettle and not a toaster?) when the knock came on his door. 

He frowned. Too early for Michelle or Chu-Hua. But he didn't know who else would knock. The guards didn't bother, the unlocking of the door was enough warning. So with some curiosity he walked over and found that yes, he could indeed open the door.

"Hello, John," Mycroft said. John found it more than a little silly that he was standing there with his umbrella.

John pushed the door open a bit wider. He wanted to be angry with Mycroft, but he didn't really have it in him. If Mycroft said there was no way he could have helped them, John actually believed it was true.

Two guards followed Mycroft, each carrying two large kit bags. They set the four bags in the middle of the sitting room floor, then left John and Mycroft alone.

"What's all this?" John asked.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade notified me that the Yard no longer needs to hold 221B hostage to their investigation. I brought you some items that I thought you might have missed." He smiled tightly.

"That's very kind," John said. He knelt and zipped open the heaviest of the bags. It was filled with files. Intrigued, he dug through them and found that someone had assembled Sherlock's various stacks of paper around the flat into organized files labeled with various case names.

"I brought your laptop, too. I thought you might want to continue writing," Mycroft said. Mycroft's eyes roved over John's comfortable prison cell, fingers restless on the handle of his umbrella as he observed and deduced John's restricted life of waiting.

"What about Harry?" he asked. Mycroft went to sit in the empty chair at the table. John returned to his abandoned breakfast.

"She went through. She took a few childhood photos she found in your side of the desk, then told me to 'chuck the rest.' I believe she was overwhelmed by sentiment. She refused to go upstairs to your room at all." Mycroft's mouth twisted as he paused and sighed. "I set aside a few things and had them sent to her, in case she regrets her decision."

"Did _you_ keep anything?" John asked him pointedly.

"Yes," Mycroft said quietly. They fell into an uncomfortable silence. 

"How's Mrs Hudson?" John asked. "I suppose she's looking for new tenants if you've cleared the flat out."

Mycroft cleared his throat. John thought he looked uncharacteristically nervous.

"No. I bought 221 Baker Street from her a few weeks ago. She gladly accepted my offer of three times the market value. Also, the sale specifies that she has a life estate in 221 A, and she will continue to receive the income from the commercial part of the property until her death. So she no longer needs to seek a tenant for 221 B. John, either eat the toast or put it back on the plate, you're making me anxious."

John realized that he had stopped mid-bite. He snapped his mouth shut and put the toast down, speechless.

"It seemed the least I could do. Sherlock would want her looked after," Mycroft said, a bit defensively. "And I yet hope that this whole business will be resolved. I would hate for you and my brother to lose the flat."

"Well. That's…" John stammered.

"It hardly makes up for this," Mycroft gestured generally with a scowl.

"No, seriously. Thank you. I appreciate it. Sherlock will, too."

"Well," said Mycroft, suddenly standing. "I'm glad to find you well, John," he said. "But I see I have intruded. Please give my best to Sherlock when you see him."

"So he survived the procedure?" John asked, a bit too quickly, words tripping out before he could stop them. No one had told them anything. It had been five weeks since Sherlock stalked off in his sheet.

Mycroft blinked in surprise.

"I am not privy to any information on Dr Singh's project," Mycroft said. "I can enter this location, and I demanded to review your condition. I have no ability to do any more than this. And I can tell you, it's not for lack of trying. But…surely they've kept you informed?"

"Not one word," John said flatly.

Mycroft gave him a thin, strained smile.

"Well, I assume if you are still here, then so is he," Mycroft opined.

"Not reassuring," John muttered, he stood and walked across the small room to the door. He gestured to the bags. "Thanks for the effort Mycroft."

"It was the least I could do," Mycroft repeated. For a moment, John thought he looked lost, as if he felt there was something more he should do or say, but nothing was forthcoming.

* * *

Two of the bags were clothes. He smiled over Sherlock's dressing gowns, running his fingers over the silk. John put them away into drawers along with Sherlock's t-shirts and pajama bottoms and piles of John's own clothes – jumpers, button downs, jeans, pants and socks. One bag was all Sherlock's suits, shirts, belt, shoes. Mycroft must have sorted based on the things he thought they would use, and the things he knew that John wouldn't bother to unpack. The bag of clothes from Sherlock's old life went under the writing desk. The suits had been perfectly tailored. John doubted they would even fit Sherlock anymore.

The thought took John out at the knees. He sat hard on the edge of the bed, then slid to the floor beside the third bag. He fumbled it open. The violin case rested atop more stacks of books and files of notes - The Work. John's laptop was there, as promised, an invitation from Mycroft to write the backlog of cases that hadn't made it to the blog, to assemble more of Sherlock's life – more of their life together. 

Michelle found him sitting on the bed staring at the violin.

* * *

Seven weeks. 

“History!” Chu-Hua said insistently, tapping the book by Michelle’s elbow.

“I’m almost done,” she replied, her pen moving over the lined note paper. Chu-Hua took in Michelle’s work with a critical eye, making a comment in her own language that was beyond John’s limited knowledge. She cast a disapproving glance in John’s direction, but returned to reading her newspaper. Chu-Hua felt John’s _ad hoc_ anatomy lessons distracted Michelle from her proper work. 

From where John was sitting, Michelle did not look ‘almost done.’ She was only about half-way through drawing the metacarpal bones, and hadn’t even started the proximal phalanges.

“Your lecturers are going to love you,” he said. She had gotten every bone in the wrist perfect and perfectly labelled, all from memory. “I wish my sketches had ever been that good.”

“Maybe I’ll be a hand surgeon,” she said. “John, did you ever reattach anything?”

John chuckled. Her questions about being a doctor got more and more specific.

“I mostly tried to give those cases to specialists. I assisted on a few interesting surgeries, and I reattached a finger once, because I was the only surgeon available. You would not believe how happy I was that it was a success.”

Michelle nodded.

When she finished the sketch of the bones, she shoved that page aside and started on a new sketch. She headed the page, “The Palmar Aponeurosis.”

“I imagine I can find you a reading list in Dr Singh’s library,” John mused, watching as she drew in sweeping, assertive lines.

Michelle nodded again. Glancing up, Chu-Hua huffed and plucked the pen from Michelle’s hand.

“History!” she said. She knocked the pen against the back of the girl’s knuckles.

Michelle sulkily rubbed at her fingers, then took the book and flung herself onto the sofa, holding it over her face as she read flat on her back. John was forcefully reminded of Sherlock. 

Seven weeks.

* * *

All the furniture was pushed to the edges of the room or into the bedroom, giving them a small, but open space to spar. He heard the door open behind them. It was dinner time, probably they should stop soon.

“Like this,” Chu-Hua instructed him. She set her feet and held his wrist and arm, then with a dip and twist of her hip, she rolled him over her back. He found himself staring up at the ceiling, a bit winded. Michelle gave a shriek and leapt up from her seat at the table.

“I’m fine,” he wheezed.

“Well, one would hope,” drawled a familiar deep voice. John tipped his head back, saw them framed in the doorway upside down, all three of them. Chavelle already had her daughter in her arms. Chu-Hua hugged her sister tightly. Sherlock shrugged from behind them and gave John a wry smile and a raised eyebrow.

John rolled over and levered himself up from the floor.

* * *

Mei-Hua hugged her sister tightly. Chu-Hua's relief was a palpable thing, 

Sherlock and Dr Watson brought the table from the Clarkes’ flat, Mei-Hua helped Chu-Hua bring the chairs. They set out the meal, enough for all of them, and sat together around the combined tables.

She took the seat beside Sherlock – a new reflex. Dr Watson noted Sherlock's relaxed acceptance of her presence at his side with a guilty sense of betrayal. He sat in the chair on the other side of Sherlock, at the end of the table, even as Chu-Hua sat by Mei-Hua at the opposite end. Michelle sat between her mumma and Dr Watson, which to Mei-Hua's surprise made Sherlock jealous. His possessiveness toward Dr Watson rolled off him in heavy waves, so much that Chu-Hua looked up in alarm. How could he harbour so much resentment of Dr Watson’s friendship and care for a child? Mei-Hua could barely hide her own amazement and disappointment. Mei-Hua might have earned Sherlock’s friendship, but John Watson was everything to him. Sherlock and Chavelle both looked at her askance. She smiled mildly and took a bite from her plate. After a brief, narrow-eyed observation, Sherlock returned to his conversation with John. She sighed inwardly. They all knew that Sherlock could be as insightful as Mei-Hua about what was going on in other people’s minds. She felt her cheeks heat in shame at what he might have gathered from that one glance. Chu-Hua pressed their knees together under the table in silent sympathy.

“The sense of numbers is not too distracting. It can be useful to exactly quantify things,” Sherlock said in response to John’s earlier question. “It’s the useless ability to hear every idiotic thought in people’s tiny, pathetic minds that I find more annoying.” He took the sting out of the comment with a half-smile in Mei-Hua’s direction. She couldn’t fail to notice Dr Watson’s flash of combined jealousy and guilt. Sherlock wanted John to see, Mei-Hua realized. Sherlock had made friends. He was strangely proud of this accomplishment, and he wanted John to see that he valued Mei-Hua in particular.

“You’re welcome,” Mei-Hua said sweetly. “I’m equally fond of your endless stream of chattering details.”

“Singh lost people who couldn’t manage it all,” Chavelle said. “Twelve people cracked under the strain. Too much input.”

“It took longer than two weeks,” Michelle said accusingly. “You’ve been gone sixty-five days!”

“We’ve been learning all the things we can do now,” Mei-Hua said. “We’ve been practicing.”

“Like what?” Michelle asked with interest.

“You should see how far we can jump,” Chavelle said. “We can’t even show you in here.” 

“It’s like flying,” Sherlock agreed. Dr Watson raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. Michelle looked delighted.

“Despite your assurances, we did go through four different drill sergeants,” Sherlock said, resuming what Mei-Hua thought must have been an earlier argument.

“’We?’” Dr Watson asked with amusement. “Or ‘you’?’” 

“I have been on my best behaviour,” Sherlock said primly. “I took your advice to heart and have paid attention to everything.”

“Sherlock was the first to get shot,” Mei-Hua said quietly, earning a rare cold glare from Sherlock. She realized belatedly that Sherlock had not been planning to mention this to Dr Watson.

“What?” Dr Watson choked, staring at his friend in alarm, though Sherlock sat before him clearly uninjured.

“He was much better than everyone else at everything. Dr Singh said his training wouldn’t suffer from a few days in the infirmary,” Chavelle said around a mouthful of rice and chicken. Mei-Hua sometimes despaired that the woman would ever understand how to use the skills she had acquired from Mei-Hua. She seemed completely oblivious to Dr Watson’s reaction.

“It was supposed to be an illustration to everyone of how easily we recover from serious injuries,” Sherlock said, sounding a bit defensive and watching Dr Watson warily. 

“Martha Atkins shot his kneecap out and Sherlock didn’t go down,” Chavelle said, like it was a fond memory. “He just kept moving. He took her weapon from her and hit her so hard with it that her helmet cracked like an egg. Martha hardly noticed. Turns out our heads are harder than our headgear.” Chavelle chuckled.

“Sherlock was walking normally within the hour. We couldn’t believe it,” Mei-Hua said quickly. Dr Watson was becoming more alarmed by the word.

“Let me see,” he demanded, pushing his chair back and rose from the table.

“John, I’m fine,” Sherlock protested.

“We’ve all been shot,” Mei-Hua interjected. “Dr Singh wanted us to understand what our bodies could do.”

“You got shot, Mumma?” Michelle asked, sounding startled. Mei-Hua cringed as her sister’s eyes filled with concern, as well.

“Let. Me. See,” Dr Watson demanded softly. Sherlock met his gaze, staring up at him, his eyes wide and surprised.

“Alright,” Sherlock agreed. He stood up from the table. “Excuse us,” he said.

“No, we should go,” Chu-Hua said. “It is late.” 

“Yes, we should,” Chavelle said. “I deduce that my daughter has been neglecting her assignments to study medicine with Dr Watson.” She gave Michelle a stern look. 

“History!” Chu-Hua said firmly.

Mother and daughter went into the hallway. Mei-Hua trailed out behind Chu-Hua, knowing that they really should leave, but strangely reluctant to be separated from Sherlock. She frowned at her own reaction as Dr Watson shut the door behind them.


	4. The Squaddie and the Chin-Strapped Old Veteran

“Who did that to your hair, anyway?” John heard Chavelle ask, shutting the door on the women's laughter at the girl's response. Sherlock had one boot off, and was loosening the laces on the other. John’s heart was racing. He tried and failed to hold off the memory of the pain of a bullet ripping through muscle and crashing against bone. Boots off, Sherlock unbuckled the mesh belt and undid the fastenings on his trousers. It was fast and efficient. John recognized the signs of a soldier who had been trained to move fast at a moment’s notice. He felt a wash of anger at every person who had participated in turning Sherlock Holmes into a squaddie… He knelt, running his fingers over Sherlock’s bare knees.

“There’s not even a scar,” Sherlock murmured. 

“That’s not possible,” John protested.

“I’ve actually been shot three other places,” Sherlock said. “The knee definitely hurt the most, and the two leg injuries had a longer recovery time by a few hours. I think that was because I kept moving while they were healing. The shot though my shoulder didn’t hurt much more than getting a solid punch, and within thirty minutes it was as if it had never happened.”

John shot to his feet. Sherlock was already undoing buttons. Jacket and shirt hit the floor. There were no marks on Sherlock’s body to indicate any wound.

“Fourth time?” John demanded.

“In the lower abdomen. I didn’t stop running,” Sherlock replied. John went to his knees again to examine Sherlock’s torso.

“You were shot four times, and there isn’t a mark on you,” John muttered, stunned. “You were gut shot, and you didn’t even stop running?” 

He looked up to find Sherlock staring down at him. 

“Shot at close and medium range, each time with an SA80, 5.56 NATO rounds,” Sherlock recited.

“I know full well what ammunition an infantry rifle uses,” John snapped. “This is not possible.” He touched Sherlock’s knee again.

“This is what Dr. Singh has done,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’ve been reading and rereading everything he gave you. You knew this already.”

John sat hard on the floor, and blew out a breath.

“Yeah, okay. I knew, but…”

Sherlock sat beside him, still in pants and socks.

“It beggars belief,” John said finally. “The human body can’t do that. It can’t heal a wound from a 5.56 round in a few minutes. It’s not possible.”

“I’m not human anymore, John,” Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance. “You knew that, too.”

John shifted his left leg over to press his knee into Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock glanced at him, then moved over to press them together from shoulder to hip. They sat a while in silence.

“Did he get everything he wanted?” John finally asked. 

“It's not clear,” Sherlock replied. He hesitated briefly. “I very much wanted to kill Martha Atkins when she shot me, but it was a shock and I was in a lot of pain. I don’t know that wanting to kill her wasn’t a normal response.” Sherlock shrugged. “Otherwise, I haven’t felt any different than before. Mei-Hua thinks the same. I don’t know enough about anyone else to be certain. I suppose we will find out when we get there.”

“Get where?” John sighed. “You know where you’re going?”

“Pakistan, apparently. The Russians and Chinese have augmented soldiers in the field there already. They are fighting each other, mostly disregarding the locals. I’m confident that Singh is _not_ planning to disregard the locals.”

“Right,” John replied. He looked sidelong at Sherlock who was watching him intently. "Come on, super-soldier, help me up," he prompted.

Sherlock stood, offered him his hands, and pulled him to his feet.

John stepped back to look him over.

"Decent job on the hair cut. Still too long," John said. It was short on the sides, long on top. John had noticed during the meal that it tended to fall over Sherlock's right eye. 

"It was like this when I woke up," Sherlock explained, making a sour face. "Honestly, they should have left it like it was. It's nothing but an annoyance now."

"Bet you don't need half an hour in front of a mirror to get it just so anymore," John smiled. Sherlock shrugged, watching John as John observed him. He reached out and touched John's hair, which hadn't been cut since they arrived, and had grown out of its usual short, tidy length.

"You're not any taller," John noted, trying not to be distracted by Sherlock's fingers winding in his hair.

"Maybe Singh thought I had enough advantages over him," Sherlock commented snidely. He let his hand fall away. "I find it very annoying to be shorter than every other man in the room."

John snorted. "Welcome to my life." Sherlock chuckled.

"Smooth," John said, running his hand over the perfect skin of Sherlock's chest. He didn't comment on how much thicker and broader he was.

"Everywhere," Sherlock sighed, with an eye roll that John thought was more to make him smile than because Sherlock cared. John laughed.

"You've got a tan," John observed, looking down at Sherlock's hands. "But not above the wrist."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, it's Scotland. Being outdoors in Scotland makes one even more pale. The natives here are blue." Sherlock’s eyes were bright. The corner of his mouth lifted in half a smile.

"Penis size?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut up," Sherlock huffed. He crushed John against him.

"When?" John asked him, voice muffled. Sherlock didn't smell the same. He smelled of institutional laundry and institutional soap and institutional shampoo. 

"Soon," Sherlock said. His voice was a rumble in his chest under John's ear.

"Come on, then," John said, pulling back a bit to take Sherlock's hand and tug him toward the bed. 

John's feet were already bare from his judo lesson with Chu-Hua. Sherlock stripped John's clothes away almost desperately, fumbling over buttons and belt.

"Two months," John said. "They didn't tell us anything. Not even Michelle. Not even whether her mother was alive or dead."

"We've been training for five weeks," Sherlock said in a rush. "Most of them are useless at deduction, though Chavelle and a few of the others show at least as much progress as you do in emulating my methods. We can all fight, but Singh isn't impressed by that, because he's had super-soldiers for years. As Chavelle said, we lost a dozen subjects to sensory overload, but the rest of them seem to be adjusting fine to numbers and detail, and the thoughts of every other human in a kilometre radius." The last was said with clear annoyance.

Sherlock pushed John naked onto the bed, and followed him, shoving off his own pants on the way.

It was two months since they had done this for the first time. Sherlock was heavier, denser. John imagined he could feel the changes in the musculature of Sherlock's thighs as their legs tangled together.

Kissing him was even better than John remembered.

* * *

"Tomorrow or the next day, I think," Sherlock said, idly running his fingers through the sticky mess on John's belly. Sherlock was curled around him, the skin of Sherlock's back cool under John's arm, heat dissipating with his sweat. His dark head rested on John's chest, ear pressed to John's suddenly pounding heart. 

"John," Sherlock said, lifting his face to look at him. "Are you alright?"

"Let's have a deduction," John suggested. "A really good one to tide me over all the cold, lonely nights. 'Go on, impress a girl.'"

Sherlock gave him an unconvincing glare. 

"Fine." He paused a moment, then wiped his fingers on his own chest. He traced the shape of John's eye.

"Your eyes are tired. You were sleeping well at Baker Street, but you aren't now. Probably nightmares brought on by what you know I am preparing to do."

He delicately touched the side of John's mouth, ran his fingers around his lips.

"But you are relaxed and smiling a lot. You've been eating, so you're not depressed. You have been surprisingly not _un_ -happy here, since they started letting you spend time with Chu-Hua and Michelle. You _are_ restless, though, down in this dungeon. Hence the judo in the sitting room. Chu-Hua's accent suggests she's been learning her English from you. Meanwhile, you and Michelle were both trying to follow the conversation of Chu-Hua and Mei-Hua at the table, so you have both been learning Cantonese from her. You were amused by Michelle's childish statement that she wants to be a doctor, but with her obvious talent for anatomy – that was quite a lovely drawing of the bones of the hand she gave Chavelle – you have been indulging her with anecdotes about clinic misadventures and difficult surgeries you have performed, which she loves. And you helped braid her hair." The quick recitation of observations and deductions stopped abruptly.

"Also, I missed you," John prompted. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the open violin case on the desk, the skull on the chest-of-drawers.

"Yes, I saw that ridiculous picture Lestrade took on his phone tucked into the corner of the bathroom mirror," Sherlock said, with mock exasperation. "Now, use my methods. What can you tell me about me?"

"I don't have to use your methods," John said. With a sigh, he sat up, swinging his feet to the floor. He ruffled both hands through his hair, then fell backwards, head on Sherlock's hip, feet still grounded, half-in and half-out of the bed. Sherlock pushed up on his elbows to watch his face with concern.

"I've known men like you. Hell, I _was_ you." Sherlock made a face, but John just pointed at him for emphasis. " _You_ , Sherlock Holmes, are a lifer. You're the Marine that joins the SBS and doesn't leave until they send him home in a flag-covered box. I think Mycroft knew. That was the reason he was so disgusted. He could probably care less about the eugenics. He was embarrassed that his brother was going to turn out to be a soldier's soldier."

Sherlock looked surprised.

"Tell me you haven't been having the time of your life," John challenged him, levering himself up from the edge of the bed. "Getting shot," he muttered to himself under his breath. He went into the en suite to get a flannel.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock ventured, sounding somewhat uncertain. He rolled out of bed and followed John, leaning against the door frame as John ran the flannel under warm water. "That seems hypocritical, coming from you."

"I'm not disappointed," John sighed. "I'm a chin-strapped old veteran, who wishes he could pass on some kind of wisdom to a kid fresh out of basic.” Sherlock reached out and took the cloth from him as he was wringing it out. He used it to scrub his own midriff clean, then he stepped behind John, his belly damp against John's lower back. He wrapped his long arms around, using the clean side to gently wipe John's skin.

"What else?" Sherlock prompted, cool eyes watching John's reflection in the mirror. 

John felt a flare of anger. He wanted Sherlock to say that John was wrong, so that John could rant at him that not even this new body that Singh had built would heal a bullet to the brain, or a knife to the heart. So that John could yell at him that he wasn't invincible, and that a battlefield wasn't anything like the games Sherlock had been playing in the constructed, safe landscape of a fenced-in field in the Highlands. 

He let the anger burn hot, then die. There was nothing to argue about, really. This wasn't a turning point, where Sherlock would make some other choice. And though John knew that Sherlock could be reckless and thoughtless, he also knew from experience that in a back alley knife-fight, Sherlock's version of reckless was built on a depth of knowledge and conscious calculation that most soldiers would never achieve. So. John let it go.

"You've been making friends," John said, resting back into Sherlock's chest, watching his face in the mirror. "You have hardly said one insulting thing about anybody; you actually seem to like Michelle's mum; and your are completely arse-over-tits for Mei-Hua. I'm pretty sure that's what Michelle and Chu-Hua were giggling about when Chavelle told her that sniggering at the table was rude."

"Completely wrong," Sherlock sniffed. But his cheeks coloured and his eyes flicked away from John's in the mirror, before Sherlock regained his composure. "Honestly, John, despite all being supposed geniuses, most of them could hardly find their way out of a brown paper sack if you handed them a map, a compass, and a torch. On the other hand, Mei-Hua and Chavelle would have at least the same chance as yourself to solve a nice, locked-room murder, making them the best of a moronic lot."

"Hmmm," John said. "I would be flattered, except that we both know that the only reason I might be involved in the solution of a locked-room murder is because you took me along so you could have someone to be suitably impressed by your deductions. And they're both prettier than me. I think I'm going to be properly jealous in a minute."

Sherlock was watching him closely in the mirror, gauging exactly how jealous John really was. John was intrigued to see the moment when Sherlock obviously came to the conclusion: Possibly very. Sherlock's gaze on his was sharp. His arms tightened around him.

"Come back to bed," Sherlock growled, pressing his lips against John's neck, the words breathed against John's skin. "You can leave whatever reminders you want." He pressed John forward against the sink, so that Sherlock's growing erection rubbed insistently against the cleft of John's arse and the small of his back.

John closed his eyes and pushed back, making space to turn in Sherlock's arms, getting a hand around the back of his neck, yanking him down to John's level, kissing him, all teeth, even as he hooked his foot behind Sherlock's ankle and shoved, tackling him hard onto the cheap carpet of the bedroom floor. Sherlock landed flat on his back with John on top of him. The fall startled a grunt from him, but otherwise, he didn’t even seem so much as winded.

"Now what?" Sherlock challenged. 

"I'd ride you right here, except I have no idea what I'm doing, the lube is across the room, and my knees probably couldn't take it." He ground his arse down against Sherlock's hard cock, now trapped between them. He chuckled despite himself as Sherlock's eyes nearly rolled back in his head.

"Trust me," Sherlock groaned. "It would not be an endurance event." Sherlock's gaze came back to John's face, slid down his body, then he smiled smugly. "But of course, you have already had a better idea."

"As a matter of fact, I have," John agreed. He crawled backwards down Sherlock's torso, settling himself between Sherlock's legs. He took a good look at Sherlock's cock.

John thought of all the things he didn't know and couldn't control in this situation. He didn't know anything about Sherlock's sexual history. He had seen signs of potential romantic interest between Sherlock and Mei-Hua, but he couldn't know if Sherlock would act on that interest. Would Sherlock feel loyalty to John? Was sex between Sherlock and himself simply the result of Sherlock's lack of experience with friendship, combined with the stress of this whole, insane situation?

"John?" 

Sherlock was up on his elbows, watching John's face again. What did Sherlock deduce from what he saw? It didn't matter. He gave Sherlock a smile that felt wicked. He was going to erase every single deduction from that brain.

He lunged forward and went down on Sherlock, swallowing him all in one go. 

John was ready for Sherlock's reflexive thrust, but that didn't prevent him from gagging anyway, and he wasn't at all surprised when Sherlock didn't make any attempt to apologize, just collapsed back onto the floor with a gasp.

John eased back and began experimenting, running his tongue over the head of Sherlock's cock, the anatomy and shape familiar in his mind, but strange in his mouth. He sucked and bobbed and used his tongue, making a mess of himself and Sherlock. His eyes ran from choking. 

He ran his fingers through the wet, following trickles of saliva down under Sherlock's body. He lifted his mouth from Sherlock's cock, catching his breath, concentrating on his fingers. There was no good angle.

"Legs," he said, his voice congested. He wiped moisture from his face with the back of his hand, then caught Sherlock's bent knee and laid it over his shoulder. Immediately he had the better access he wanted. He caught Sherlock's other leg, and tipped his body back just a bit more.

 _This_ was not new territory for John Watson. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was still watching him hazily, eyelids heavy. John gave him a grin and a wink, then ducked down again, this time bypassing his cock for his hole.

“John,” Sherlock breathed. “That is… That…” Sherlock seemed unable to form a coherent sentence as John lightly ran his tongue around his pucker, which was perfectly fine with John. He hummed in response, which sent a lovely shudder through Sherlock.

John pressed with the tip of his tongue at Sherlock’s very centre, then began licking broad wet stripes from the top of his cleft, up over his pucker and perineum, around his balls, and up his shaft to the tip of his cock, before kissing his way back down to the beginning, over and over, stopping every few passes to lick and suck wetly at his hole. He smiled at every new whisper and whimper from Sherlock.

He worked a finger in between kisses, Sherlock’s body relaxing open easily. He finally sat back to concentrate on pressing in a second finger. 

“How’s that?” he asked, watching Sherlock’s face. Sherlock blinked his eyes open and swallowed hard.

“Alright,” Sherlock replied thickly. He reached down and caught his fingers in John’s too long hair. John let himself be pulled back up, letting Sherlock’s legs fall to the side. His wrist twisted awkwardly, but Sherlock was kissing him ravenously, then licking over his face while John laughed. He turned his hand and crooked his fingers. Sherlock responded by grinding down with a groan that rumbled through his chest to John’s.

“Come on,” he growled.

“Sherlock, that’s only two fingers.”

“I don’t care, come on.” He shifted his hips, wrapping his legs across John’s thighs, roughly knocking John’s fingers free. He hissed against John’s lips.

“It will sting like that,” John warned him, laughing again.

“Don’t care. Come on.”

“Fine. Okay. Just…” John spit in his palm, and reached down between them to slick his cock.

Sherlock made a frustrated noise, squirming against him.

“Would you just give me a moment?” John said with exasperation, trying to guide himself with his hand. He skidded off target twice before he caught the right spot and pressed forward before he lost it again.

Sherlock gasped and went still.

“I told you,” John said, not that he wasn’t feeling breathless himself. “Bear down for me,” he said. He groaned as Sherlock's body tensed then gave way and he slid all the way home. Sherlock’s neck arched back. John felt warm wet heat on his belly. With a shout of surprise, John followed after him, and collapsed in a sweaty, sticky heap on top of him. Sherlock’s legs fell limply to the side.

"Well," John chuckled. "That was anti-climactic."

“It was a perfectly fine climax. You _have_ to try that,” Sherlock said, with a long sigh.

John laughed.

“Bed?” he suggested.

“Floor is fine,” Sherlock replied.

“Okay,” John agreed.

Sherlock was quiet, his breaths evening out into sleep.

“I’m glad you have friends, Sherlock,” John whispered.

Sherlock hummed in reply.

* * *

“Why did we sleep on the floor?” Sherlock muttered, futilely brushing at the lint sticking to his naked skin.

"Your fault," John said. “Take a shower." 

"Immediately," Sherlock agreed. 

"Don't use all the hot water," John admonished. He sat up, viewing the state of himself with a scowl. He realized Sherlock was still standing by him, and glanced up to see his friend watching him appraisingly.

"You could join me," Sherlock proposed. 

John considered the possibilities and decided a shower was definitely the thing.

"I've got rug burn," Sherlock complained.

John took a good look at the back of him. Sherlock was all heavy muscle and perfectly smooth skin. There wasn't a mark on him. John snorted. 

"Start the shower, you toff. I'll wash your back."

* * *

John made his way out of the en suite on shaky legs, wrapped up in his robe, towelling his hair and already dreading the day, even through the residual flush of shower sex with a very enthusiastic partner. _Tomorrow or the next day_ , Sherlock had said. Today or tomorrow, then.

Sherlock stood in front of the open kit bag, towel slung low on his hips, staring down at what John knew were his neatly folded clothes: shirts, jackets, trousers. He was probably deducing why John had shoved them out of sight, instead of hanging them in the nearly empty clothes cupboard.

Breakfast had been delivered while they were in the shower. John went through to the kitchenette to fill the kettle.

When Sherlock came out to the table, he wore his blue dressing gown over his grey pyjama bottoms. John watched him pick up the tablet resting on the table with one hand and a piece of cold toast with the other, and felt a sudden, heart-stopping nostalgia for Baker Street. He went back to making the tea before Sherlock could notice.

* * *

Today-or-tomorrow turned out to be today.

Sherlock kissed him carefully, then left with his escort without saying anything. John let him go quietly.

His dressing gown lay across the bed. 

John sat on the couch, waiting. It was only moments before Michelle let herself in. She looked on the brink of tears. She came and sat by him, leaning over on his shoulder. Chu-Hua appeared much later, her eyes red-rimmed. She smiled at Michelle, who had fallen asleep. To John's surprise she came and sat on the other side of him, resting her head on his other shoulder.

* * *

_Pakistan_

_Dear Mycroft,_

_This is pointless, repetitive and dull. Motive is pedestrian. Method is only slightly interesting. This is why I would never work for you._

_I can't believe I left Baker Street for this. Hardly more than a four._

_Very truly,  
Sherlock_

* * *

John sat at Chu-Hua's table. Michelle had gone back to her flat to study at her own desk. Marcus had set exams for Michelle at the end of the month. She was revising as if her life depended on it, leaving the adults to their own devices. 

Chu-Hua had been watching him all morning. John was feeling irritable, on the second day of a new wait that he expected to be much longer than the last one. This time, without even a theoretical end to the waiting in sight, John felt suffocated by his own captivity. It seemed more than likely that this was how his life would end, buried alive, never breathing fresh air again.

"You think loudly," Chu-Hua said suddenly. "My sister knew everything you were thinking when she visited us."

John felt his face get hot, remembering some of his thoughts from dinner that night.

"She could even hear you when she was in our flat," Chu-Hua continued, as if following the train of John's thought herself. He studied her face. Was Chu-Hua psychic, like her sister? She inclined her head just slightly. John's eyes widened and she shrugged.

"Your Sherlock is like my sister now," Chu-Hua continued.

"Sherlock knew everything about me before he became like your sister. He's never needed psychic powers to know everything people were thinking," John retorted. He felt defensive. Had Chu-Hua been able to read his thoughts all this time?

Chu-Hua bowed her head in acknowledgement.

"But now, he will know everything, as if you told him yourself," she pressed. John passed a hand over his face, pressing the cool palm against his hot eyes, willing the embarrassment away.

"Luckily, long ago I learned how to keep pesky little sisters from spying inside my head," Chu-Hua said.

John lowered his hand from his eyes and looked at her.

"I think that maybe you should learn what I know for when you meet your Sherlock again," she suggested.

"Yeah. Okay," John agreed.

"We will start today," Chu-Hua said with a smile.

* * *

It had been weeks since they left. John was restless, Michelle was bored. Chu-Hua was quiet, often not joining them at all during the day. John practiced the techniques she had taught him on his own. Michelle took her exams and did particularly poorly in History. John's outlook became more and more bleak.

"We can see them on the television," Michelle said quietly one morning. 

John looked up from his keyboard. He had taken to typing blog entries, though he was under no illusion that anyone would ever read them.

"What?" John asked. He had avoided the television all this time. 

“They’re on the telly. Look,” Michelle had the remote from where it sat on top of the television.

“No,” Chu-Hua said firmly. “You should not watch.” She held out her hand for the remote.

“I'll just watch it in my own flat,” Michelle objected. “You can’t stop me.”

“They should not permit it. It is not for children.”

“It’s Mumma!” Michelle shouted.

John caught the remote out of Michelle’s hand and flicked the television on, then realized that he didn’t know anything about the channels.

“Here, show me.”

Chu-Hua muttered to herself in her own language and stalked out. John stared after her. He had never seen her lose her temper.

“…say that the attackers appear to have unusual capabilities. Refugees from the region have cell phone footage of events that occurred in their villages. Viewers are warned that these images are disturbing.” John’s breath caught as the shaky cell phone video took over the screen. It was unbelievable, and horrifying. 

Sherlock was right. They did seem to fly. They moved in super-human leaps, disregarding weapons, slaughtering survivors with ruthless efficiency. They wore goggles and shemaghs, obscuring their faces. 

However, what most drew John’s attention was that Singh’s fighters weren’t doing most of the killing. It appeared the villagers had viciously turned on each other. Every short clip showed fighting in homes, in the streets, in shops.

“Survivors report that the fighters spoke a variety of languages, including English, Russian, and Chinese.”

“The fighters are moving swiftly south and east out of Peshawar, pushing refugees ahead of them, and leaving utter devastation behind.”

“The refugees are almost all children younger than ten. Credit for their survival is given to two fighters in particular.”

Suddenly, the news report focused on a still of a man and a woman, faces unobscured by scarves or goggles, rifles clipped to their body armor. Mei-Hua knelt, talking eye-to-eye with a small boy. Sherlock stood behind her, and appeared to be handing something to an older child.

“These two unnamed individuals, possibly British nationals, have been reported by many survivors to have intervened to prevent other fighters from attacking them, allowing them to escape unharmed.”

The camera pulled away, showing the newscasters at their desk again, with the still of Sherlock and Mei-Hua still on the screen behind them.

“Did you see your mum?” John asked, turning to Michelle.

The girl nodded.

“They’re killing all those people,” she said shakily.

“Yes, it looks like it.” John sat back heavily.

“Even Mumma,” she whispered. “Why is she doing that?”

“I don’t know for sure. I have a lot of ideas about it, but I don’t know if any of them are right. I don’t think we should guess. It’s not fair to them.”

Michelle stared at him.

“I’m not sure we _should_ be fair to them,” Michelle said.

“I think Chu-Hua’s right. I don’t think you should watch this,” John said. He clicked the television off.

“It’s too late,” Michelle said. “I saw it already.”

The two of them sat in the quiet sitting room until the guards brought their dinner.


	5. C/o Mycroft Holmes, The Diogenes Club, London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gives John a mission.

Chu-Hua and Michelle didn’t come to visit him for two days, and he didn’t mind, really. At night when he knew Michelle was safe in her own flat, he would flip around the news channels. Sherlock and Mei-Hua became the face of the “super-soldiers” as the news programs had started referring to Singh’s troops. They rotated four or five pictures of the two of them, taken by survivors. Despite the uniform and helmet, Sherlock was easily identifiable in every photo. John figured it was only a matter of time before somebody realized. He couldn’t understand how not one single London news personality or journalist had made the connection. 

After dinner, he felt groggy and out of sorts. He was on the lookout for depression, cooped up with nothing to do, and he tried to keep a regular schedule, for the same reasons that he had tried to avoid watching television all day. Still, when he felt himself drifting to sleep on the couch, he dragged himself to the bed, shedding clothes on the way. This was unusual. Maybe he was getting sick. He didn't feel particularly ill, just lethargic and uncoordinated. He tumbled into bed in vest and pants and passed out struggling with the duvet.

He woke up feeling cotton-mouthed and hung-over. He groaned. He'd have to stumble all the way to the en suite for water. He scrubbed his hands over his face and sat up.

“Dr Watson, just a moment,” said a man’s voice.

He stared around with a start.

“Jesus!” he muttered. This was not where he fell asleep. He was in a hospital room, dressed in a gown. A man – Dr Millman he noticed reflexively from his name badge – stood by the bed.

“Oh, God, tell me no.” He stripped the light blanket and sheet off the bed.

“Shit,” he hissed. He didn't need a mirror, he could tell already. His legs were too long. His hands were too large. His hearing and vision were too acute.

"There's no reason for you to be alarmed. Everything went perfectly. If you'll just wait a moment…" Dr Millman was scurrying around to the other side of the bed, as John swung around and sat up.

He spotted the uniform folded on the chair and laughed bitterly.

"I won't wear that," he said, pointing to it.

"What?" the doctor asked.

"Why did you do this to me?" John asked. "On whose orders?"

Dr Millman was clearly offended.

"Do this to you?! Do you comprehend what I've _done_ to you? I don't understand you people…"

"What people? Sherlock Holmes? Mei-Hua Li? Those people?" John growled. He turned on the doctor. "If you don't understand me, then find someone who does." The doctor paled and clutched his chart to his chest. John picked up the uniform from the chair and shoved it against the clipboard. Dr Millman fumbled to catch it when John let it go. "Tell whoever is in charge that I'm not wearing that." The doctor backed out of the room. John ignored him as the doctor gave instructions to soldiers in the hall. 

Everything felt off. A quick glance around the room, at the heights of the door frame and the sink and the countertops, and he thought he must be nearly a foot taller. His hands were huge. He felt a pang, imagining how strange it would be, surgical tools much smaller in his hands, which immediately made him think how long it had been since he'd been in a surgical suite, which made him think of his shoulder.

He wanted a mirror. There was one in the bathroom. The scar was still as ugly as ever. He rotated the shoulder. Full range of motion, no pain. He smiled at himself grimly in the mirror. As silver linings went, it seemed insignificant.

He went back out into the room. He was tired of waiting. He had waited for months in this place. Now Sherlock was a war criminal and he was a mutant. Waiting had been the wrong way to go. John would bet his pension, not that he needed it anymore, that the guards Dr Millman spoke to in the hall were armed. How simple would it be to get through the door, take a guard's rifle, and just leave? He had no idea where Michelle and Chu-Hua might be, but he could probably find someone who knew how to take him to them.

He clenched and unclenched his left fist as he considered how many soldiers he would probably have to kill or maim to manage a successful rescue and escape. He might be able to exploit a hostage. John was still considering the possibilities when the door opened and an orderly came in with a duffle and a pair of boots. He set them down on the floor with a nervous smile.

"Dr Millman said to let you know that when you are ready, Mr Holmes is waiting to meet with you upstairs." 

John's heart skipped a beat before he realized. Not Sherlock, of course. Mycroft. The orderly retreated quickly without explaining how John should let them know he was ready, but then again, there were at least three cameras monitoring the room. Probably Mycroft had a direct line on the feed.

John dug through the bag. The clothes were exactly what John would have loved to buy for himself, if he were heading back to the desert. There was a jacket, thermal underwear, shemagh. He pulled out a pair of khaki trousers with lots of pockets and a crisp white cotton shirt. They fit perfectly. So did the boots. John took a moment to be amazed yet again by the Holmes genius. All Mycroft's old data about John would be worthless now, though John supposed this had been a simple puzzle for Mycroft. He must have had a look at John's chart. John shook his head and went to the door. Dr Millman opened it before John could cross the room.

* * *

“I didn’t learn about it until the day after they started the process,” Mycroft said as John walked into the small lounge adjacent to the officers' mess. “It was too late to stop it.”

John considered Mycroft, trying to decide if he believed him or not.

“Yeah, fine, yes,” John muttered, taking a seat on one of the comfortable sofas. "Explain it to me, then."

Mycroft sighed and sat in a wingback chair opposite him.

"You've seen the news?" Mycroft asked softly.

"Yes," John said shortly. He stared down at his strange, too large hands.

"Since you began your…" Mycroft still seemed unable to make himself say it. "...it's been twenty days. Singh and the augmented humans finished with Pakistan. They overthrew Islamabad the same way they destroyed the villages in Peshawar. It was appalling. The city's almost completely deserted now. There's no one to clear the bodies from the streets."

John had never seen Mycroft look so grim.

"After Islamabad, it appears they split into two forces. The Chinese and most of the Russians went east into Jammu and Kashmir. Singh and the remainder, mostly our people, went west, through the Khyber Pass."

"They are doing things in Afghanistan that shouldn't be possible, John. More than half of the Americans they meet run away, the rest they cut down without mercy. One of them can take on a company and win. Seasoned Royal Marines are as helpless before them as farmers and villagers. It is not clear where they will stop," Mycroft said softly. "And no one knows what Singh really wants."

They sat silently in the empty lounge. John could envision the scenes clearly, a fire team against a super-soldier. Based on what John had seen in the over-exposed, shaky video from Pakistan, Sherlock wouldn't even need to fire a shot.

Sherlock. In his mind's eye the killer was Sherlock, with his goggles pushed up into his strangely short hair and his olive shemagh fallen down from his face.

John took a deep, steadying breath.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" John asked.

"I want you to go to Helmand and meet my brother. I want you to convince him to assassinate Singh and then _stop_ this madness. I want you to bring them all home."

"Me?" John said. He felt himself smiling at how ludicrous it sounded. "You think I can go and engineer the implosion of a group like that? Aside from Sherlock and Mei-Hua, and possibly Chavelle Clarke, those people are all personally loyal to Singh. Even if Sherlock and I could figure out a way to kill him, why would they follow Sherlock instead?"

"I believe the last group, the scientists, joined Singh knowing what he was planning. But the early subjects, the ones that received the same alterations you did, they thought they were furthering medical science. They didn't offer their participation in genocide and war. They all owe their lives to him, but I suspect that most of them are only carrying out his orders for the same reason those townspeople turned against each other. Singh is using Ms Li's psychic abilities to manipulate them. If he were gone, they would join your cause."

"Leaving only the genocidal psychic troops for me to convince?" John asked.

"My brother and Ms Li should be able to address that problem," Mycroft replied.

"What makes you think two of them can handle more than fifty determined opponents?" John challenged. "This is crazy."

"Getting rid of Singh will be significant, even if that's the only thing you accomplish," Mycroft said. "He is the driving force behind this, I'm certain."

John leaned his head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"Your assistance has been demanded by powers higher than myself," Mycroft commented.

"That's how I ended up like this," John realized. "Someone in the Ministry of Defence thought I would be more successful as one of them."

"Idiots," Mycroft said, with a venom that drew John's attention. Usually only Sherlock had the ability to ripple Mycroft's preternaturally calm demeanour. "I don't know what Sherlock will think, when you appear like this. He's not the man he once was. He might view your change as a betrayal, or feel that it has altered you in some fundamental way so that you are not _his_ John Watson anymore. This is useless to the plan at best, and quite possibly catastrophic."

"Is that what you think?" John asked. "That Sherlock is that far gone? I've only seen the survivor's footage they put on the news. You must have more."

"I don't know. But I do know that you are in the forefront of his mind at all times," Mycroft said. He lifted an attaché case that rested on the floor by his chair and took out a thick file. He removed a separate manila folder before passing the file itself to John.

"That's everything MI5 and MI6 can provide you regarding Singh's movements and activities," Mycroft said.

He held up the envelope.

" _This_ is especially for you. From Sherlock Holmes."

He opened it and removed a stack of tattered pages.

"Over the past month my brother has been giving these notes to children all across Pakistan and Afghanistan to be delivered to one Dr John Watson, c/o Mycroft Holmes, The Diogenes Club, London. This has only come to light since you were unconscious. The press has taken to calling the child refugees 'Watson's Children.' I strongly suspect this is not all he has written to you, considering ones that might have been lost or taken by other agencies and not delivered to me."

All the notes had been written on folded scraps of paper. Probably read and analyzed by at least three intelligence agencies, even if they did make it to Mycroft eventually.

The one on top read,

_The desert is more interesting than I expected. You must have loved the night sky here. I am particularly fascinated by the scorpions, though their stings are unpleasant, even if I am immune to their venom._

Farther down, he found,

_One wouldn't imagine that the mass murder of thousands of people would be so incredibly boring. I selfishly wish you were here. I am surrounded by the most inane zealots. Even your righteous anger would be a relief to the tedium._

One simply read,

_I miss breakfast with you at 221B._

None of them were signed, but they were all clearly in Sherlock's distinctive handwriting.

"You'll find a few in there addressed to me. There is also this," Mycroft turned to one page in particular, not an original note, but a photocopy of a florist's card. The hand that wrote the message wasn't Sherlock's - probably the florist.

_You can say you knew me when. - SH_

"Received by Sgt Sally Donovan attached to two dozen white roses. I found out about it when DI Lestrade overreacted and sent a hazardous materials team to the sergeant's home," Mycroft said, looking annoyed. 

John set the stack of notes gently on top of the file.

"Where are Michelle and Chu-Hua?" John asked quietly.

"They're still here. They're worried about you," Mycroft said. 

"I want them somewhere safe, above ground, where Michelle can go to a real school," John began.

"That is being arranged as we speak," Mycroft replied. "But they will have to remain under a protective detail. If there comes a time that Ms Clarke or Ms Li is in a position to demand their return, I need all the options open."

John frowned. Sherlock and Mei-Hua had clearly been able to do almost nothing to temper Singh's genocidal rampage. An outside party on the ground, someone like John, might be able to give them something more - leverage to a possible solution.

"What can I offer them, if they come back with me?" John asked. 

"We will do our best to protect British citizens by limiting the number of them that are brought to the court in Geneva as war criminals, possibly laying all the responsibility on Singh himself."

John shook his head.

"That doesn't sound like much. The world will demand real punishment for this," he paused. "Justifiably so. If we shelter these people, we will be at war with the Americans, the Chinese, the Pakistanis..."

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line.

"You _have_ to convince them that surrender is better than the alternative," Mycroft said. "The Israelis and the Iranians are promising nuclear strikes against them if they approach the western borders of Afghanistan. NATO has stated it will come to the assistance of Turkey if her borders are threatened. There two hundred of them. They cannot hope to fight a concerted effort by the major world powers."

"You said they already are, in Afghanistan," John pointed out.

"The Americans have their own genetic engineering program. I have been assured by my American counterparts that they are readying their augmented soldiers to deploy."

"And they're sure their mutants won't go over to the other side, like the Russians and the Chinese did?" John retorted.

"Will you?" Mycroft challenged.

John picked up the notes, running his fingers over the softened paper.

_I can never go back to London now. I wonder where I could go? I wonder if you will ever speak to me again._

"John," Mycroft pleaded. "If you do this, you may be able to prevent more senseless killing, and possibly bring my brother back home. Of all of them, Sherlock and Mei-Hua could survive this. They have the sympathy of the press. They have protected children. If you can possibly help them put an end to this…"

John scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Yes, alright. Yes. Fine. What next?"


End file.
